


Keep The World At Bay For Me

by torakowalski



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Comic Book Violence, Coulson Lives, Discussions of grief, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Agents of SHIELD season one, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-slash Steve/Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2505758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding out that Phil's alive and working with a new team isn't easy for Clint, and neither is helping Captain America track down the brainwashed Hydra assassin that used to be Bucky Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep The World At Bay For Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Keep The World At Bay For Me (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2505695) by [wintermute](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintermute/pseuds/wintermute). 



> With thanks to Chaneen for awesome beta and Nerdwegian for always being encouraging. <3
> 
> Wintermute has done some AMAZING art for this, which is linked at the bottom so please, please check it out!
> 
> Warnings for: a little bit of graphic violence, Clint's post-Loki PTSD, and discussions of grieving.

Clint lifts his head from his arms when the cell door rattles open. He’d love to come up swinging, but he’s done that one too many times and it’s left him bruised and battered enough that he can’t manage it again.

He turns his head, then has to lean it against his forearms when it tries to wobble off his shoulders. The rattle of the chains that connect his wrists to the wall way above his head, matches the ringing in his ears.

“You look like a goddamn a mess,” says a voice Clint never expected to hear again.

“And you’re dead,” he slurs, tongue too big and heavy for his mouth, mind too sluggish to really be shocked.

“Yeah, that’s going around,” Nick Fury says, and kneels down in front of Clint. “Status report, Agent.”

Clint just stares at him, trying to pull something, anything into his brain. “Fuck you,” he settles on. “Fucking Hydra.”

Fury shakes his head. He reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out a shiny knife. It’s weird seeing him in a jacket, not his long, black, _I Am The Angel of Fuck Off_ coat, and there’s something else wrong with the picture he’s making, but Clint’s too drugged up to figure out what.

“Fucking Hydra,” Fury agrees, tone totally dry.

He leans forward and cuts straight through the chains around Clint’s feet, then the ones around his wrists. Without the support, Clint slumps, barely catching himself before his nose hits the solid concrete floor.

“Nice knife,” he says.

“Thanks.” Fury pockets it - of course it doesn’t cut through his jacket even though it just cut through metal. Nothing would dare cut up Nick Fury’s clothes. “Can you stand?”

“Nope,” Clint says, but uses the wall and Fury’s shoulder to stumble to his feet, anyway. Fury gives him a _look_ , so Clint removes his hand pretty damn quick, even though he really did need the support. The whole room lurches, once he’s standing on his own. “Where we going?”

“We need you,” Fury says.

“You do?” He turns slowly to look at Fury. “‘cause Secretary Pierce locked me in a dungeon and sent his goons in to smack me around a lot.”

“He also told all your friends you were dead,” Fury says without missing a beat.

Clint blinks. “Well, that explains the lack of dramatic rescue. You know, sir, I really don’t like him.”

“Yeah?” Fury slings Clint’s arm over his shoulders and drags him toward the door. “Join the goddamn club.”

***

Clint’s pretty much exhausted by the time they get out of the facility where he was being held and into a sleek, black sedan. He thinks Fury killed a lot of people and he thinks he killed a couple, but it’s all a little hazy, so he might have imagined a lot of that.

“You gonna throw up in my car?” Fury asks him, watching carefully from the driver’s seat.

Clint thinks about it. He’s got the shakes, all the sedatives they’ve been pouring into him to keep him quiet, mixing with the adrenaline from finally escaping. “Probably not yet,” he decides.

“Okay, well, you just let me know,” Fury says, mock-solicitous, and puts the car in gear.

They drive a while in silence. Fury has never exactly been chatty and Clint is busy concentrating on how fucking shitty he feels. Then he notices the roadsigns and the weather changing, and has to put in a token protest.

“Where’re we going, sir? You know I’m allergic to prairies.” The sun is beating down outside the car, making Clint’s skin feel tight just from looking at it.

“We’re going to Nebraska,” Fury says. “So suck it up.”

“Nebraska.” Clint rubs his face. “Fuck. I was in Tucson.” He’d gotten his first good lead on the Maximoffs in months, and now he’s lost that, which just sucks along with everything else.

“Maybe once.” Fury doesn’t look away from the road, or bother sounding sympathetic. “Pierce was holding you outside Denver.”

“Bastard,” Clint says automatically. It’s like one of those word association games. Someone says _Pierce_ , Clint says _bastard_. Or _asshole_. Maybe when he’s feeling better, he’ll upgrade to _motherfucker_ ; Fury will like that one _._

Fury doesn’t say anything, but Clint’s sure he agrees. He really wants to press for more, but the pounding in his head is getting bad, and he can’t figure out how to form words.

“You all right?” he hears, which is so weird that it startles a laugh out of him. Since when does Fury ask about people’s health?

“You know what you said about the puking?” Clint asks through gritted teeth.

Fury sighs and brings them to a rapid halt against the side of the road. Clint just breathes for a couple of seconds until he’s sure he really is going to throw up, then he fumbles open the door and does his stuff out onto the highway.

Not much comes up, Hydra weren’t exactly feeding him, but he still feels better when he’s done.

“Concussion?” Fury asks, handing him a water bottle from somewhere.

Clint fumbles the cap off the bottle and gulps the water down greedily. “Don’t think so.” He hasn’t been hit in a while and he felt better then than he does now. “Withdrawal, maybe? They kept pumping a lot of shit into me.”

Fury takes the bottle and swaps it for an energy bar. This being-looked-after-by-Fury thing is _weird_ , has Clint mentioned that?

“So, you gonna tell me what’s been going down?” Clint asks. He pulls the car door closed and leans back against the seat. Yup, definitely withdrawal. Now that he’s gotten some of that shit out of his system, he already feels more alive.

“I do intend to do that,” Fury says, in that way he has where he speaks slowly, so he can get his thoughts in order. “But first, I need to read you in on something else.”

“Okay,” Clint says slowly. He doesn’t like the sound of that, whatever it is. What can be more important than Hydra infecting SHIELD?

“There’s a file in the glove compartment,” Fury says, nodding at the dash. “Take a look.”

Clint opens the glove compartment and pulls out the file that he finds there. He ignores the Glock, the pepper spray, and the slightly glowy stick that are also in there.

“So what’s this?” he asks, flicking it open, then stops, just like literally stops. He’s aware that his mouth is hanging open, that his hands are locked and frozen around the edges of the file, but he can’t do anything about it. His brain is buzzing white noise.

It’s not a file, so much as a dossier. It’s full of pictures: Melinda May, Grant Ward, a few kids he doesn’t know, and Phil. Phil in every other shot. Phil smiling, Phil frowning, Phil looking tired. Phil alive.

He checks the date stamps, rechecks them, flicks through them all and checks the dates on every one. They’re all from this year.

“I don’t.” Clint stops, clears his throat. He turns his head to look at Fury, hoping that his expression will ask the question for him. 

Fury shrugs one shoulder. “I told you, being alive was going around.”

“Oh my god, I’m gonna punch you,” Clint says, more like a realisation than a threat.

“You are more than welcome to try,” Fury says, and Clint thinks he means it. 

Clint looks away from him again, back at Phil. He traces the edges of one of the photos, mind nothing but static-y white noise. “How?”

“That’s a long and complicated story,” Fury says. “For now, let’s go with he did die, we did some shit, he came back. He’s been running that team for the last few months. They’re doing good work.”

“I don’t care how good their work is,” Clint says. He’s shaking, so he forces his hands steady. “He’s really... Is he okay?”

“He’s okay. Causing trouble, being a pain in my backside. The usual.” Fury laughs, not quite amused, but not quite unamused, either. 

“He never told me.” Clint closes his eyes, forces them open again. He wants to laugh or cry or something. It’s unreal. He’s talking about Phil like this is real, like Phil’s back, like he’s in Clint’s life again.

“Hey.” Fury knocks him on the shoulder. “I told you. Pierce told your friends that you were dead. And I told Coulson the same thing.”

Clint snaps his head up. “Why?” He means _what the fuck?_ He means _how could you?_ He means _I’ve had this hole in my heart for two years for nothing_?

Fury doesn’t look sorry, but then Fury doesn’t do sorry. “I knew something was going down, even if I didn’t know that it was on this scale. I needed him focused when the time came.”

“And I’m a distraction?” Clint asks. He knows he’s not. He can be a liability, sure, but Phil never let their relationship interfere with anything while they were on the job. “No. You thought I was part of it. You thought I was _Hydra_? Fuck you.”

“I didn’t know it was Hydra.” Fury sounds like he’s getting tired of Clint having emotions, but if that’s the case, Clint doesn’t give a shit. “I thought it was a coup. And you’ve always had a problem with authority.”

Clint doesn’t know where to start. “I’m about to have some, yes,” he says, but he can’t get the anger up. Phil’s alive. Clint covers his face with his hands.

“Do not cry in my car,” Fury says, sternly. “And buckle up.”

Clint does as he’s told automatically. He keeps the file out, because it’s the prettiest thing anyone’s ever given him, and he wants to stare at it for the rest of his life.

“Where are we going?” he asks. “And if the answer’s not 'straight to Phil', I’m gonna jump out the car.”

Fury makes a rumbling sound that means he’s either about to laugh or about to bite. “We’re going to Coulson,” he says, like it’s a concession, even though that was obviously his plan all along. “His team is putting SHIELD back together again; they’re gonna need your help.”

“Help with what?” Clint asks, still staring at the pictures. Phil looks so good. Clint traces the edge of his suit jacket, the tip of one finger over Phil’s hand.

Fury puts the car in gear and they drive forward smoothly. “Lot of shit. Mostly, rooting out as many Hydra agents as you can find. Not that...” For the first time, maybe ever, Fury hesitates. It’s enough to earn at least a part of Clint’s scattered attention. “Coulson’s in charge, so it’s his call. But that’d be my play.”

“Do they... do they know?” Clint asks.

“They don’t know anything yet. This wasn’t something I could trust to our communications systems, not anymore.”

“Right.” Clint nods. “Can’t really trust anyone anymore, huh?”

“Shut up, Barton,” Fury says. “I told you now, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” Clint’s still mad, of course he’s mad, but his lips curl up at the corners, anyway. “I guess that’s something.”

***

Hours after they set off, Fury finally pulls off onto a dirt road, and sends them bouncing across fields and a couple of little streams until they reach an out-of-the-way strip of land with a seriously beautiful plane sitting on it.

“You gave them one of the Globemasters?” Clint asks, hands twitching at his sides. No one ever lets him fly anything except the Quinjets.

“They call it the Bus,” Fury tells him with a sideways glance. He parks the car in the shade of an overhanging tree, then leans on his horn.

A couple of minutes later, the back ramp of the plane opens up and Agent May pops out. There’s a bandage around her upper arm and she’s carrying a gun, which is pretty unusual for her. She’s followed a second later by Antoine Triplett, and seriously, does everyone Clint’s ever worked with know Phil’s alive except for him?

There’s a girl with long, dark hair lurking just behind them, and next to her, not lurking at all, just standing there with his arms folded, is Phil.

He looks like he’s been in the wars; shirt rumpled and a row of stitches across his forehead. But he’s alive and upright and he looks _good_.

Clint’s breath gets stuck in his chest and he makes a stupid wheezing sound that he’d be embarrassed about, if he had the brain left for embarrassment.

Fury pops the locks and opens his door. “Coming?” he asks over his shoulder to Clint, leaving the door open.

Clint can’t do it. He needs more time. He can’t just get out the car and let Phil see him. He doesn’t know what to say. He should have showered. Fuck, he threw up not long ago; he should have brushed his teeth.

“In a minute,” he says to Fury, who shakes his head at him and steps forward.

“Really?” Phil asks from the edge of the ramp. He sounds like _Phil_ , which is a dumb thing to think, but it makes Clint’s eyes sting. “I thought you were in the wind? It’s been two days. You can’t have your job back, yet.”

Fury smiles that slow smile he only ever gives Phil. “Hey, asshole, I’m dead. It’s a dead guy’s prerogative to change his mind.”

Phil twitches all over. “Is that honestly a line you want to use?” he asks. “On _me_?”

Clint laughs. He can’t help it. He was already feeling hysterical and Phil is still the same, still Clint’s favourite snarky bastard.

The sound must carry out of the open driver’s side door, because Phil freezes. The wariness falls from his expression and he stares at Fury with his eyes wide open, almost pleading. “Who...?” he asks, almost whispers.

And okay, Clint’s not a coward; he won’t be one about this. He opens his door and gets out of the car, stepping around it so he’s out of shadow and Phil can see him. “Hey, sir,” he says, voice cracking.

Phil sucks in a breath. Maybe this wasn’t fair; Clint got a warning, maybe Phil should have gotten one, too.

“Clint?” Phil asks, and then, to Clint’s shock, he rounds on Fury, looking genuinely murderous. “What did you _do_?”

Fury raises his hands. “Lied to you,” he says. “He’s fine. He was never hurt. Coulson, I swear, he’s fine.”

Phil’s gaze rakes over Clint, probably taking in every scratch and bump and bruise, the way he hasn’t shaved or showered in way too long, the stringy mess of his hair. “He doesn’t look fine. He looks... He looks...”

Phil’s voice breaks just like Clint’s did. He takes a step, then another, then he breaks into a jog down the ramp, closes the gap between them, and grabs Clint by the shoulders.

“Phil,” Clint whispers, “I didn’t know,” and that’s all he gets out before Phil drags him forward, pulling him into maybe the tightest hug that Clint’s ever been given.

There’s a startled sound from behind Phil, but Clint just presses his face into Phil’s neck, Phil’s skin hot against Clint’s burning eyes, and doesn’t look up to see which of Phil’s team they’ve scandalised.

“Clint,” Phil says into his ear, and then again, disbelieving and shaken and hoarse.

Clint nods helplessly. He wants to clutch Phil tighter, kiss him, shove his hands under the layers of Phil’s clothes until he can feel his skin and check that it’s really warm, really alive.

But they can’t. The world is falling down all around them, and for once, Clint’s going to put that first. 

He pulls back, even though it hurts to. It feels like he’s ripping his own skin off and the empty space that’s been sitting in his chest since Phil died suddenly feels even hollower.

“There’s a lot of shit going down, sir,” he says. He can’t do anything about how his voice sounds shredded, but he can straighten his shoulders, try to look a little bit more together.

“Really?” Phil huffs a laugh that’s more shake than sound. “We hadn’t noticed.”

Clint opens his mouth to ask what, exactly, happened to him, but Phil jerks his head. “Not out here. Come inside.” He glances at Fury. “Coming, sir?”

“Hell, no, I was just delivering a package; now I’m out of here.” Fury starts to turn away, then turns back. “Barton, be good.”

“You’re seriously not coming with?” Clint asks. It’s not like he’s nervous about being left alone with Phil and Phil’s new team but, well, Fury does make for a distracting buffer.

Fury raises his eyebrows, all sassy-like. “You really think dragging your ass out of jail was the only thing I had to do today?” He claps a heavy hand on Clint’s shoulder and leans in close. “Take care of him.”

“I want to,” Clint says, too honest. “I’ll try.”

Fury’s hand squeezes, so it’s less a friendly-yet-menacing pat, and more just a threat. “Don’t make me go all Yoda on your ass, Barton. Do the thing.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Clint says. He finds himself drifting closer to Phil, their arms brushing from elbow to wrist, and doesn’t try to stop himself. “Call if you need us.”

Fury’s snort is loud enough to wake the dead, but Clint’s sure he appreciates the sentiment.

“See you in another couple of days, Nick?” Phil asks.

Fury flips him off, which is either hilarious because Clint’s feeling hysterical anyway, or it’s hilarious because it’s _hilarious_.

Phil turns to Clint, looking him over from top to bottom again like he might have changed in the past sixty seconds. Clint doesn’t object, because he does exactly the same thing. Phil licks his lips and reaches out a hand, before dropping it back down to his side.

“You’re staying, aren’t you?” he asks. 

Clint nods quickly. “I’m staying,” he promises. “I mean, that’s okay, right?”

Phil stares at him, then starts to laugh. It’s as shaky and as jagged as Clint felt in the car, hell as Clint feels _now_. “Yes, please,” he says. He finally touches Clint, just two fingers against his bare forearm, between two bruises. “Come with me.”

Clint turns back toward the plane when Phil does. They’re being gawked at by everyone on the ramp, except May who’s smiling a little. She nods when Clint looks at her, so Clint nods back. He figures that’s as close as the new, unimproved, post-Bahrain Melinda May gets to saying she’s glad you’re not dead.

They walk into the plane with Clint at Phil’s side, May on point, Triplett on their six. 

The girl Clint doesn’t know scoots around them and leans in to May, whispering, “Was that Director Fury? Where’s his eyepatch? And who’s _that_?”

 _Shit_ , Clint thinks, proverbially smacking himself in the forehead. _Eyepatch_. That’s why Fury looked different. The sunglasses just weren’t the same.

“Be quiet,” May says flatly. “They can hear you.”

Clint tries to bite back a smile, but fails. He doesn’t know who this kid is, but she’s more fun than any of the people Clint’s been hanging out with over the last couple of weeks.

(The people Clint’s been hanging out with over the last couple of weeks: exclusively Hydra.)

“Hey, AC,” the girl says over her shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

“Introductions inside, Skye,” Phil says in his best no-nonsense tone. Clint almost trips over, when that tone makes his knees go weak.

The inside of the plane is just as amazing as Clint figured it would be. They’ve got a fucking science lab, and sleeping areas, and a breakout area with a bar, and a fish tank in the wall.

There are also holes in the wall and little flecks of glass stuck here and there in the carpet, like there used to be a lot of glass there not that long ago.

They don’t stop anywhere inside the plane, just keep walking on through until they reach the exit hatch, and then May leads them down some steps and out into what looks like a giant warehouse. It’s white-painted and spacious, but they don’t stop there either. 

“Is your plane hiding a secret lair, sir?” Clint asks. “That’s very James Bond.”

“It’s called the Playground. And it’s SHIELD, now,” Phil says. His voice echoes in the warehouse part, then cuts off to a regular kind of level when they go through a door into a wood-panelled corridor. “All that’s left.”

“All?” Clint asks. “You mean like, all in the Midwest or...?”

“All,” Phil says heavily. He does a thing with his mouth like a smile, but Clint knows him really well and knows he isn’t even trying to make it look genuine. “Everyone else is either dead, Hydra, or gone their separate ways. Maria has gone to Stark.”

Clint rubs his head. He’s not sure if he’s got a headache or if his brain is just refusing to process. “It’s all gone?” he asks.

When Phil doesn’t answer, May cuts in with a curt, “Hawkeye, how bad is that concussion?”

“It’s not.” Clint rubs his head again. “I don’t think I have a concussion.” He thinks he said the same thing to Fury, but it’s getting hard to remember. He shakes his head, and since that doesn’t make everything go too tippy or swishy, he decides that he’s probably okay.

“We have medical facilities,” Phil says. He sounds kind of stilted, but that’s okay, Clint’s feeling kind of stilted. “We can get you patched up.”

“Can I get a sitrep, first?” Clint asks. “I’m pretty much out of the loop, here.”

May pushes open a door ahead of them, which leads into a pretty nice lounge area, glowing pictures on the wall of some sunny beach somewhere.

“Take a seat,” Phil says, pointing to one of the couches. 

Clint isn’t operating on all cylinders, here, so he does as he’s told. He sinks down into the cushions, and groans when all his muscles try to relax at once.

He watches as Phil automatically steps closer, then backs away again. Clint doesn’t know if he’s relieved or not. He wants to be able to see Phil, but if Phil sits next to him, Clint’s going to try to touch, which would probably be a bad idea.

Phil seems to be having the same problem, because he ends up sort of stalling in front of Clint, fingers tapping against his thigh and eyes only landing briefly on Clint before jumping away again.

Without thinking too hard about it, Clint stretches out a foot and nudges him on the ankle. 

Phil looks up, licks his lips nervously, then gives Clint an apologetic little quirk of his mouth before stepping back.

Clint not-smiles back at him, because he gets it, kind of, but it still hurts.

“Skye,” Phil says over his shoulder, “could you ask Simmons to join us, please?”

“Maybe Agent Triplett and I should go,” May starts, but Phil cuts her off. 

“No,” he says firmly. “Agent Barton asked for a sitrep; I need the two of you to fill him in.”

“Where will you be, sir?” Triplett asks. He sounds worried about Phil, which is good, Phil should have people to worry about him, but he doesn’t sound like he knows what the matter is. Judging by the way May is looking from Phil to Clint and back, she definitely does know.

“I need to go... that way.” Phil points toward the door, but it looks like he’s just pointing blindly. “Koenig will need to, um.” He walks away, saying something under his breath that sounds like _lanyards_.

“He okay?” Triplett asks, dropping down into a chair opposite Clint’s.

Clint assumes he’s asking him, because everyone always used to ask him to decipher Stoic Agent Coulson, but it’s May who answers. “He’s probably a little shocked. Everyone thought Barton was dead.”

“Huh,” Triplett says. “Now that you mention it, I think I did hear that. What did you die of, Barton?”

Clint shrugs. “Hell if I know. I was undercover, then I was in Hydra Jail. No one told me I was supposed to be dead.”

“They told you Coulson was dead, though?” May asks, not quite a question.

Clint tries to nod, but he suspects it looks more like a full-body jerk. It jars his massive collection of bruises and strains.

“So,” he says, “Hydra?”

“Hydra,” Triplett agrees flatly, and looks like he’s about to finally tell Clint what’s been going on. Before he can, they’re re-joined by Skye.

“Can someone get the door?” she asks. May jumps up, taking it from her, just as another girl backs into the room, guiding a wheelchair through the doorway with Skye’s help. The boy in the chair looks even younger than the other two and, jeez, is Phil running a kindergarten here?

“Sorry,” the new girl says. British accent, lab coat. Clint doesn’t know her, but he recognises her from the photos in Fury’s file. “Skye didn’t think it was an emergency, and Fitz does hate to be left - ” Her eyes fall on Clint and she smiles. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Clint says. “Don’t worry, I’m not bleeding out of anything.” 

“Oh good.” She beams at him. “That’s good. We prefer it when our visitors aren’t bleeding, don’t we, Fitz?”

“Normally,” says the kid in the wheelchair. He blinks at Clint then blinks again. “Are you Agent Hawkeye?” He winces, then smacks his head like it’s let him down. “Agent Barton, I meant.”

“ _Hawkeye_?” The girl who may be called Skye gapes at Clint. “You’re Hawkeye? Coulson knows Hawkeye?”

“Coulson’s Hawkeye’s handler,” May says, giving Clint a smile without moving her lips.

“Lucky Coulson,” Skye mutters, which makes the boy - Fitz? - look scandalised.

“Hi,” Clint says, leaning over and offering her his hand. “Clint Barton.”

“Hi.” She shakes his hand firmly. “I’m Skye. Sorry about objectifying you.”

Clint grins at her. “Not a problem. Who are your friends?”

“Fitz and Simmons,” she says, pointing to them in turn. “They do science-y things.”

Simmons draws herself up and smiles at him. “Fitz worked on your bows, sir,” she says.

“Shh,” Fitz hisses, cheeks going pink.

“Yeah?” Clint asks. “I lost my latest one. You think maybe you could rig me up a new one?”

“Absolutely,” Fitz says, nodding quickly. “I mean, I. Hopefully.” He looks up at Simmons who looks impossibly sad for a moment, before she drags a scarily bright smile onto her face.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “Fitz can definitely make you a new bow. But first, I need to check your injuries. Where are you hurt?”

“Um.” Clint shrugs. “Everywhere, mostly?”

Simmons keeps smiling. “Okay,” she says. “Then let’s start from the top.”

***

While Simmons patches Clint up, the rest of the team takes turns filling Clint in on everything that’s been going on. Apparently it was a lot.

He’s not sure if it’s his Avengers cred, his SHIELD reputation, or May’s tacit approval, but they don’t seem to be keeping anything back from him. Or, if they are, he seriously doesn’t want to know what it is.

When he’s sure everyone’s done and there aren’t any more horrifying revelations coming about people he spent years working with, Clint gets up and walks out of the room. Then he keeps walking until he’s through the plane and outside. He sits down heavily on the end of the ramp.

His hands are shaking. He knew about Hydra from the moment Pierce had him in chains, but he hadn’t realised it was this bad. He thought it was a few rotten eggs, that they’d weed them out and go out for shawarma after.

But so many people are dead or Hydra. So many people who were important to Clint. Like Victoria Hand, who was the first person at SHIELD Clint ever came out to, after she sat down next to him in the cafeteria one day and told him about her girlfriend. Like Grant Ward, who Clint once spent three weeks with in a two-man tent in Alaska; Clint feels tainted by association.

And fucking John Garrett. Clint is most furious about him. Sure, maybe he was kind of a blowhard, but he was in their lives a lot; he was important to Phil. Hell, he was in their wedding party.

He needs to find a phone, needs to call Natasha. He feels dirty and gross at the idea that he’s been doing Hydra’s bidding all these years; he can’t imagine how she must be feeling.

Someone walks down the ramp behind him, metal grinding softly, then Skye sits next to him. Her knuckles are white around a vaguely familiar-looking blue box.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding at Skye’s hands.

Skye starts to hold it out, then draws it back toward her chest, pushing up the lid just far enough for Clint to see the SHIELD badge shining inside. “I was an agent of SHIELD for about five minutes,” she says, sounding like she’s trying, but failing, to laugh it off.

“Sucks.” Clint pulls his feet up and folds his arms over his knees. They both stare out into the middle distance. Clint wonders if this is what it feels like to get laid off, except that instead of losing his job, he’s lost everything. 

“What did you do before SHIELD?” Clint asks eventually.

“Lots,” Skye says, looking away. “But SHIELD’s been the best.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Clint says, and he really does. He’s had a million different lives, and being Agent Barton of SHIELD is just one of them, but it was the one he was planning to stick with.

“What are you going to do now?” Skye asks. She looks like she should be on the cover of one of those teen magazines, all pretty, bouncy hair and giant eyes, but there’s something clearly thrumming under her skin that Clint recognises.

“Kick Hydra ass,” Clint says without hesitation. “You in for that?”

“Yeah.” Skye nods. She frowns like she’s thinking about it, but keeps on nodding. “Yeah, I’m in for that.”

“Good.” Clint beats out a rhythm on his knees with the flats of his hands. “You got a phone I can borrow?”

“Sure?” Skye says, pulling a sleek, black StarkPhone out of her pants pocket.

“Thanks.” Clint says, without answering the question in her tone. He takes the phone and holds it tight, relieved that he’ll have a connection to Natasha soon. “Give me a minute?”

Skye looks like she wants to argue, or at least get her phone back before she leaves, but she scoots away with an uncertain smile. “I’ll check on the others,” she says.

Clint watches her walk away, waiting until she’s definitely out of earshot before dialling a number into her phone. 

“You’ve reached Natalie, leave a message!” says Natasha’s voice in her mostly blandly unrecognisable American accent. 

Clint fumbles with the phone for a second until the keypad comes back up (StarkPhones are stupid, no matter what Tony says) and types in 0618.

“This is Natalie, call me back!” says Natasha’s voicemail. Then the line goes dead.

Clint hits redial, waits for it to ring twice, then types in the password (it’s B-u-d-a-p-e-s-t; they’re not original, but they haven’t been hacked yet).

There’s seventeen seconds of total silence, which always makes him twitchy, then Natasha says, “Who is this?”

“Uh, me?” Clint says, which is super helpful, Barton, wow. “It’s Clint, Nat. I’m here with - ”

“Be quiet,” Natasha snaps. “If you are Clint, don’t tell me who you’re with. But you can’t be Clint. He’s dead.”

“I’ve been told there’s a lot of that going around,” Clint says. “Look, I’m with Cheese, okay? Marcus picked me up. Do you believe me?” It took a lot of work for Clint and Natasha to unearth Fury and Phil’s old Ranger callsigns; he doubts anyone else would have bothered.

Natasha sucks in a breath. “Cheese?” she asks, something like hope in her voice, except she’s Natasha, so she quickly casts that away. “You’re a bastard. I thought you were dead.”

“Well, I didn’t know that,” Clint protests. “Pierce locked me in a Hydra cell. I wasn’t exactly making social calls.”

“Pierce was a bastard,” Natasha says. Which is why she’s Clint’s best friend. “He’s dead.”

“I know, I got told the whole story.” There’s a hole in the knee of Clint’s pants. He really needs clean clothes. “Are you okay?”

Natasha laughs brightly. “When am I ever not okay, Clint?” she asks.

 _Always_ , Clint thinks. “Where are you?”

There’s a pause. “I’m not going to tell you that. I put everything in the SHIELD database onto the internet. My aliases, your aliases, everything. I need to find a new past that I can live with, before I try to do anything for anyone else.”

Clint closes his eyes and tries to ignore the way the ache in his chest gets worse. He’s not going to see her for a long time, if that’s the case. “You could just be Natasha,” he says, without much hope. 

She laughs again. “Take care, Clint. I’m glad about Cheese.”

“Me too,” Clint says, even though _glad_ is only one of about a million things he’s feeling. He wants to beg her to stay on the line, so he can ask her what the hell he’s supposed to do now, now that he has no job and no security, but his husband’s come back from the dead. All he says is, “Take care, too. I love you.”

She stays on the line, just long enough that he knows she heard him, then disconnects with a click.

***

“Hey, uh, Simmons?” Clint says, catching her halfway down a brightly lit corridor.

“Yes, sir?” she says. “Are you okay? Do you want me to take another look at - ”

“Where’s Coulson’s office?” he interrupts. He could find it himself, but that’s just another delaying tactic.

“On the Bus,” Simmons says, pointing back over her shoulder. “But he’s not there, he’s, uh, there.” She points over Clint’s shoulder.

Clint makes himself turn around and yep, there Phil is. Still being alive and looking at Clint like _he’s_ the ghost. “Sir,” Clint says weakly.

Phil’s mouth opens and closes, then his eyes narrow. “Agent Barton, do you need any further medical attention?”

Simmons makes a kind of _ohh, pick me again!_ noise, but Clint shakes his head. “I’m good, sir, thank you. I’d kill for a shower and a change of clothes, though.”

“We have a communal shower down the hall,” Simmons offers. “And some lovely bubble bath that Fitz picked up in Morocco.” 

“Thank you, Simmons, but Agent Barton can use my bathroom.” Phil smiles at her, then reaches out to Clint. His hand gets so close to Clint that it probably looks like he’s touching him; only Clint knows about the half-centimetre of hesitation between them. “This way.”

“What if I wanted the lovely Moroccan bubble bath, sir?” Clint asks, letting himself be guided down the corridor. His whole body is basically one giant bruise and all the aches and pains are making themselves known, despite the pain pills Simmons gave him, but he doesn’t slow down.

“I have some, too,” Phil says. He guides Clint back onto the plane and up a metal staircase that’s randomly hanging out in the middle of the lounge.

It’s a nice office. Six times bigger than the one Phil had at SHIELD (the one Clint slept in for a solid month after New York, until Facilities told him that he had to get out, they were giving it to someone else) and furnished in expensive-looking, Phil-like things.

Clint sticks his hands in his pockets just before they start shaking in earnest. “Shower?” he asks, trying to keep his voice level.

“Clint,” Phil says, and he’s not trying at all.

Clint keeps his eyes front, can’t look at Phil even though he’s had countless dreams where this happens, where he can turn around and throw his arms around Phil. In the dreams, it was all he ever wanted, but in reality, his brain seems to be stalled.

“I don’t think I can, sir,” he says. “I don’t... I...” He has to take one hand out of his pockets so he can swipe it across his eyes. “Stupid.”

“How long have you known?” Phil asks, quietly.

“Since Fury picked me up this morning,” Clint says. “You really didn’t know, either?”

“Director Fury himself told me you died,” Phil says. The words sound painful. “Then he forbade me from having any contact with any of the Avengers.”

“He told them I died, too,” Clint says. “Or, Pierce did.” He spies a couch out of the corner of his eye, has to sit down on it. He looks up at Phil, just as far as his belt and the lowest button on his suit jacket. “They’re all bastards.”

Phil drops down onto his knees in front of Clint. Clint closes his eyes, but that doesn’t stop him from knowing exactly where Phil is.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” Phil says.

Clint nods.

“Can I touch you?” Phil asks.

Clint nods again, then flinches when Phil’s hands settle on his knees. “Don’t kiss me,” he says.

Phil slides his hands up Clint’s thighs, stopping about halfway up. He leans in until Clint can feel the heat of Phil’s body and hear Phil’s shaky breathing near his ear.

“I missed you,” Phil says. “Clint?”

Clint makes himself open his eyes. Phil’s chest is blocking Clint’s view of the rest of the room, but he’s respecting what Clint said, isn’t quite within kissing distance. Phil’s eyes are as pretty as they’ve ever been, but now they’re shiny and a little red and it makes Clint feel worse.

“I don’t know why I’m being like this,” Clint says, swallowing hard. “Fuck. I should want to throw you down on the bed and fuck you until neither of us can think anymore.”

Phil strokes his thumb along Clint’s cheekbone. “I’d settle for just looking at you,” he says.

Clint laughs shakily. “How do you always know what to say?”

“I really don’t,” Phil says.

Clint doesn’t either, so they just watch each other. What do you say in a situation like this? Clint’s favourite thing about having a husband, having a Phil, was that he could come home from work and just talk about whatever shit had happened to him that day, even if Phil didn’t care, even if it was tiny and insignificant. He hasn’t had anyone to do that with since Phil died, and he thinks he’s maybe forgotten how to make conversation, at all.

“Did you hear about Sitwell?” Phil asks, eventually.

Clint frowns. “No?”

Phil’s face is stony, but it’s the kind of stony that means he’s super hurt underneath. “Hydra. Dead.”

Oh, fuck. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” Clint says. Obviously, because Clint’s brain makes no sense, that’s what gets him touching Phil.

He puts his hand on Phil’s hand, then decides that isn’t good enough and slides it under his shirt cuff instead, until he can feel heat and soft hair. He squeezes, and it’s Phil’s turn to close his eyes.

“What do we do?” Clint asks, too used to Phil always knowing the answer to that.

“Rebuild SHIELD, track down Hydra,” Phil says. He lets his head drop forward, looking exhausted. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“Oh, that’s all.” With Phil’s eyes closed, it’s easier for Clint to look at him, to take in the fine lines around his eyes. He’s lost weight, his cheekbones more prominent, his jaw tighter like he’s been clenching it a lot, lately.

Clint leans forward and presses his lips against Phil’s stubbled cheek. Clint’s heart is hammering in his ears and he thinks he might explode out of his own skin.

“God, Clint,” Phil says, turning his head. 

Clint ignores all the confusion and anger and panic that’s clawing at his throat, and presses his mouth against Phil’s. They don’t really kiss, they just push close, lips slotting together. Phil gasps into Clint’s mouth and Clint hears himself make a little sound that’s maybe, kind of, definitely is a sob.

“God, _Clint_ ,” Phil says again. He wraps his arms around Clint and Clint folds forward into him, hugging him back just as hard. Phil feels solid and strong, and it’s easy to forget everything that’s going on outside.

Distantly, he’s aware of the room starting to spin around him. “I think maybe I do have a concussion,” he says into Phil’s collar.

“I’ve got you,” Phil says back, and he doesn’t let go.

***

Clint wakes up alone and aching, but still way less gross-feeling than when he went to sleep. He’s wearing borrowed sleep pants and one of Phil’s SHIELD hoodies, and his hair smells of Phil’s fancy Moroccan shower gel.

He sits up, rubbing his face, and tries to remember falling asleep. He remembers showering, head against the tiles and trying hard to stay on his feet, but that’s about it.

The door slides open and Phil comes in, carrying a mug of something steaming. He’s wearing the same suit as yesterday, and his hair is getting kind of fluffy. Clint feels choked up all over again, and has to swallow it down hard.

“That for me?” he asks, making sure his clothes are in all the right places. They haven’t seen each other naked in nearly two years; he doesn’t want to accidentally flash anything now.

“I was hoping I’d get to wake you up,” Phil says, handing the mug over. He pats the bed, pleased when Phil sits down next to him and leans their shoulders together. 

The smell of coffee wafts up to Clint and he tilts his face down into the steam “Sorry,” he says. He can’t remember ever dodging a good morning kiss before, but he’s still feeling kind of wobbly and it’s harder to be brave in the mornings.

Phil yawns and leans closer, arm sliding around Clint’s back to settle on his hip. Clint leans into him and drinks his coffee. He can do this, apparently, but can’t turn around to look Phil in the eye.

“Did you get any sleep?” Clint asks, when he’s halfway through his coffee and words make sense again. 

“I caught an hour,” Phil says, with a shrug that rubs the soft material of his shirt against the back of Clint’s neck. “I had a lot to think about.”

“Like what?” Clint asks. Then he realises. “Oh, me?”

“You,” Phil agrees. He leans the side of his head against the top of Clint’s, hand tightening on Clint’s hip.

“Phil, I’m - ” Clint cuts off abruptly, when someone knocks on the door.

Phil straightens up, taking his hands and his body heat away, then calls, “Come in.”

Clint doesn't bother to stop slouching. He hasn’t finished his coffee; he’s not moving until that’s done.

“Sorry, guys,” Skye says, half opening the door then leaning around it. She looks about as tired as Phil, but her clothes are fresher. “I have, um, the Black Widow on the phone for Agent Barton?” She sounds like she objects to being the messenger, but also like a person who has _the Black Widow_ on the phone.

Clint rolls out of bed in a rush, reaching out for the phone. Skye holds it out, then hovers in the doorway. Clint can’t blame her for wanting answers, and doesn’t ask her to leave.

“Nat?” he asks, pressing the phone to his ear.

“Code names, Hawkeye,” Natasha says. She sounds annoyed, and his shoulders automatically relax. If Natasha is annoyed with him, everything’s as it should be.

“Sorry.” Clint flashes Phil a smile, since he’s looking worried too. “Sorry, _Black Widow_ , what can I do for you?”

“Nothing,” Natasha says, “but I need you to check in on Cap for me.”

“Isn’t he like, busy being a national hero or something?” Clint asks. He’s only peripherally aware of what Rogers does with his spare time, but he just saved the world from Hydra, so he’s probably having a parade thrown for him or something.

Natasha tuts. “Not exactly. He’s trying to track down the Winter Soldier. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“No?” Clint says slowly. “The Winter Soldier?”

Phil tips his head, looking curious, and Skye’s eyebrows shoot up. Clint knows Phil believes in the Winter Soldier, just like he does, but that’s because Natasha has actually met him (getting shot by someone is meeting them when you work for SHIELD). Skye’s probably read all the reports that call him a myth. 

“I’m worried about him,” Natasha sighs. “You know I hate being worried about people.”

“I did know that,” Clint agrees. He wants to ask when she and Rogers got close enough for worry to be a thing, but now’s not the time. Plus, he’ll probably sound jealous.

“From what I hear, he’s been searching everywhere and I’m worried he’s going to burn himself out. He needs some help.”

“Searching everywhere for the Winter Soldier?” Clint asks, just to make sure.

“Okay,” Natasha says, “listen up, I’m going to explain. Don’t interrupt.”

She explains. By the time she’s done, Clint’s feeling a little bug-eyed. He snaps the phone closed and hands it back to Skye in silence.

“What’s wrong?” Phil asks.

Clint holds up a hand. “Let me get dressed first,” he says. He’s pretty skeeved that Hydra was keeping a brainwashed dude in the basement, but Phil is going to be heartbroken. Captain America is his hero, but Bucky Barnes is his secret teenage crush.

“Clint?” Phil looks worried. “Is Natasha okay?”

“Seriously, dressed first.” Clint starts looking around for the closet. He needs pants. Underwear would be nice, too, since this seems like it’s going to be another long day and there’s only so many hours he’s happy going commando before there’s chaffing. 

“Next one over,” Phil says, pointing at what Clint thought was a gun cabinet. He opens it and has to stifle a noise at the row after row of perfectly pressed suits. Their closet used to look like this, before Clint boxed up all of Phil’s stuff and sent it back to SHIELD. He’d thought they were going to check it then donate it to Goodwill, not give it back to Phil. 

Clint grabs the first pair of non-suit pants he comes across, and shakes them out, probably more than they need, just trying to clear his head. 

He looks up and finds Skye and Phil trying to have a conversation with their eyebrows. It seems to be going okay, but Clint knows he and Phil could do better.

“Uh, guys,” he says. When no one pays him any attention, he drops his sleeps pants and starts pulling on a pair of Phil’s jeans.

Skye makes a startled, amused sound and about-faces out of the room. Phil follows her out, but stops in the doorway, turning back to smile slowly at Clint. 

When Clint finds himself returning the smile, he feels a flutter in his belly where he was pretty sure no flutter was ever going to live again.

***

“Dear God,” Phil breathes. He puts a hand up to his face, drops it again. “That’s horrifying.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees and resists the urge to put a comforting hand on Phil’s knee.

They’re sitting together in the Playground’s big, open kitchen, away from all the others. They’re sharing one tiny table in the corner, despite the space around them. Clint hadn’t really thought through the whole proximity thing when he’d dragged Phil in here, but now he’s glad for it, because Phil’s turned white as a sheet.

“And Captain Rogers thinks he can bring him in?”

Clint shrugs. “That’s what Nat said. He’s got this Wilson guy helping him, but, I don’t know, it’d be good if we could help him too, maybe?”

“Yes,” Phil says, too quickly. Then he shakes his head, wincing. “I really do want to help. But don’t you think we should be focusing on rebuilding SHIELD, right now?”

Clint leans in, covering Phil’s hand with his. “Your people look frazzled, sir. I think maybe they need some downtime?”

Phil nods. “You’re right, they do. Chasing the Winter Soldier isn’t exactly downtime, though.”

Clint works very hard to ignore the flipflop of jealousy in his belly. “Yeah, I meant they could rest, and you and I could go help Cap. Maybe. Like, only if that’s cool with you.”

Fuck, he needs to sound, needs to _feel_ less nervous.

Phil’s hand clenches around Clint’s. “Clint,” he says.

“Does SHIELD need to be rebuilt right this second?” Clint ploughs on quickly. “I mean, how are you even going to start?”

Phil’s laugh is shaky. “I have no idea,” he says.

Clint wants to kiss him. If this were any other time in their lives, Clint _would_ be kissing him. “Let’s go find Cap,” he says. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay,” Phil says. The way he’s looking at Clint makes Clint want to squirm away, except that he never wants to be far away from Phil ever again. 

“Yeah?” Clint asks. He doesn’t know why he’s so pleased, he just really wants Phil to himself for a while. Even if _to himself_ is also going to include Captain America and Bucky Barnes.

***

“We could help,” Skye says stubbornly, when Phil tells his team their plan.

“We could,” May agrees, and Fitz and Simmons look at each other, then nod along.

“Seriously, sir,” Triplett adds. “Bucky Barnes was a Howling Commando; my granddad would have wanted me to help out.”

Phil holds up a hand. He’s smiling, looking like a proud papa bear. “Thank you all,” he says. “But you need to take the opportunity to rest. I can’t remember the last time we had any down time, can you? 

“Well there was that time with the - ” Fitz starts.

“No, that doesn’t count,” Simmons interrupts. “We were unconscious.”

“We went to a bar once,” Skye offers. 

May shoots her a look. “That _really_ doesn’t count.”

Triplett just shrugs. “Don’t look at me. I’m not sure you people have even slept since I got here.”

Clint pushes off from the wall he was standing against, and joins Phil in the middle of the group. “So you guys get a nap and I’ll take Phil... Agent Coulson for some Winter Soldier-hunting.”

“It’s Director Coulson,” Skye says, smiling at Phil, who widens his eyes at her meaningfully.

“What?” Clint asks, rounding on Phil. “ _Director_?”

Phil looks adorably flustered. “That’s not. I’m not using it. Fury meant it metaphorically when he gave me the - ”

“Yeah, no,” Triplett interrupts. “Fury made you Director; that’s what we’re gonna call you.”

Clint nods along. “And it’s awesome.” It is; it’s so awesome. If anyone deserves that job, it’s Phil, even if SHIELD is currently a group of kids plus him and May.

“So how are you planning to find him?” Triplett asks. “Captain America, I mean. Do you have his cell phone number?”

Clint actually does have his number, which is kind of weird, but it’s been going to voicemail all morning.

Clint shrugs. “Nat says he’s hitting Hydra bases, so I figured we could find some of those of our own. Even if we don’t meet him at the first couple, we can at least take ‘em down.”

“That’s not a good plan, Barton,” May says, shaking her head. “We have no idea how many Hydra bases there are. Or even if he’s still in the US.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Clint asks.

“Um.” Clint turns to see that Skye is waving her hand in the air like this is high school. “I might.”

“Go on,” Phil says, a tolerantly impatient look on his face that’s so familiar the sight of it almost makes Clint want to do something stupid. Like cry. Again.

Skye straightens up, and her shoulders go back a little as everyone’s attention fixes on her. “So I’ve been looking at the files the Black... that Agent Romanoff uploaded and there are definitely gaps in what’s there, which is weird, right, since she uploaded everything. And I got to thinking that Centipede had paper files, so why wouldn’t Hydra? I figure if we find those files, we’ll find Hydra bases.”

“How do we find the files?” Clint asks, leaning forwards.

Skye screws her nose up. “That’s the thing; I’m not sure. But you guys know all the top Hydra guys, right? Where are they most likely to have kept their secretest secrets?”

Phil looks at Clint, who shrugs. “Triskelion?” Clint offers. “I mean, Pierce was always there. It’d make sense to keep the files close.”

“It would,” Phil agrees on a groan. “What a shame it’s in pieces at the bottom of the Potomac.” 

“Not all of it,” May says. She smiles when Phil swings around to look at her. “DC?”

“DC,” Phil agrees. He looks at Clint. “Somehow, I’ll be blaming you if a building falls on our heads.”

“Fair enough, sir,” Clint says. He grins at Phil, and it’s finally starting to feel natural.

***

The Triskelion is a mess. Like, literally. It’s a crumpled tower of twisted metal and burned out nothingness. 

It’s become a running joke that Clint always announces how much he hates the Triskelion as soon as they arrive. And he did: it was so shiny and modern and open, no cover or protection, but that would be tacky now considering how many people just died there.

“Jeez,” Skye says, coming to stand on Phil’s other side. “I’m guessing it doesn’t usually look like that?”

Clint shoots her a grin behind Phil’s back. “I guess someone forgot to pay the janitors.” 

“Be quiet, both of you,” Phil says, stepping carefully forward over a pile of ash and... Yeah, Clint doesn’t know what it used to be. “We need to see what we can find, then get out of here as quickly as possible.” He points up at one of the CCTV cameras that’s still clinging to a free-standing wall. “I don’t want any of us getting caught on camera.”

“Also, the building might fall on our heads,” Clint offers.

Simmons, who’d been taking a cautious step forward, takes two hurried ones backwards.

“Also that,” Phil agrees. “Everyone split into teams. We’re looking for paper files, remember. Skip anything electronic, because we’ll already have it. Don’t take any stupid risks; as Agent Barton says, the building is unstable.”

Phil and Clint pair up without any discussion. Phil’s team look a little startled, but Triplett breaks off with Simmons, and May takes Skye, so Clint doesn’t feel like he’s intruding too badly. Mostly he feels bad for Fitz, who’s stuck on the Bus; the poor kid had looked devastated when he’d had to stay behind.

They pick their way carefully across what used to be the massive lobby with the giant fuck off statue in the middle. That’s all gone now. The lobby is a dark cave of endless holes and creepy shadows, and the statue crunches under Clint’s boots.

“Fuck,” Phil whispers under his breath. Clint looks across at him quickly, but he hasn’t found anything; he’s just looking around, looking horrified.

Clint reaches out and catches Phil’s hand, giving it a squeeze. Phil squeezes back, before squaring his shoulders and striding forward.

The east wing is mostly intact - it doesn’t have a roof and there’s half a helicarrier engine sticking through the wall, but the majority of it is still standing. 

“There’s a door to the basement this way, right?” Clint asks, trying to remember.

“I think so,” Phil says. He looks up, and his face goes sad. “I mostly took the elevator. I loved that thing.”

“It did have some fucking nice views,” Clint agrees. He finds the door he was looking for and eases it open. A couple puffs of ceiling drift down on them, but nothing more substantial, so they head on down.

It’s dark at the bottom of the stairs and the lights don’t work, but Phil has not one, but two flashlights, and he hands one over to Clint with the air of a guy who never expected Clint to remember something like that.

It makes Clint feel warm and glowy inside.

They shine their flashlights across the room, Phil making a tiny, satisfied noise when they glimpse the shine of dull metal through a broken-down portion of wall.

There’s no door into the room, as far as Clint can see, so they’re damn lucky the wall came down. Inside, it’s full of filing cabinets, floor to ceiling in a ten foot square room.

“Take the left,” Phil says, branching off to the right. Clint watches him just long enough to see him put one of his electrical hacking doodads on a locked filing cabinet, then turns to open another cabinet, himself.

Clint doesn’t have a fancy doodad, and Tony’s not around to give him one, so he just unholsters his pistol and puts a bullet in the keypad.

“That shouldn’t work,” Phil says, without looking up.

Clint pulls on the top drawer and grins when it jerks open. “Did though,” he says.

Phil just hums, like he never really expected anything else.

***

They make a pretty good pile of Shit That Looks Suspicious (Phil says they can’t call it that, but Clint finds a post-it note and a pen and labels it anyway).

It’s been about an hour, when Phil’s comm chirps and Phil says, “Yes, okay, we’ll meet you there.”

“Heading out?” Clint asks, bending to pick up the files.

“Yeah, May thinks - ” is as far as Phil gets before he freezes, eyes locked on Clint’s shirt as he straightens up.

“Sir?” Clint asks, then looks down. “Shit.” There’s a tiny, red dot in the centre of his chest. He swallows hard and looks up, following the line of sight to try to work out where the sniper must be. He hasn’t been shot, yet; maybe there’s a chance.

There’s the glint of a scope from the edge of a missing section of ceiling. 

“Hey, there,” Clint calls, pitching his voice to carry. “Something I can do for you?”

The red dot jerks abruptly to the right, and a familiar voice says, “Agent Barton?”

Phil’s eyes widen. “Captain Rogers?” he asks, at the same time that Clint yells, “ _Cap_?”

There’s a whooshing sound that Clint can’t identify, and then Steve literally lands at their feet, tucking into a roll and springing upright, shield in hand. 

“I can’t believe it,” Steve says, clapping Clint hard on the shoulder. “They told me you were dead.”

Clint shrugs. “Yeah, I heard,” he says. “Speaking of - ” He jerks his thumb at Phil.

Phil makes a noise like _don’t don’t don’t_ , which makes Clint have to hide a grin. 

“Agent Coulson,” Steve says. He actually sounds kind of choked, and even in the dim flashlight, Clint can see Phil blush.

Phil nods. “Captain,” he says. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth a little, the way he does when he’s trying to remain calm. “What are you doing here?”

Steve still looks pretty flummoxed. He’s not trying to shoot them anymore, though, which is nice. “We were... Hydra kept a prisoner here. We found a room.” He locks his hands together, one over the other in front of the shield, probably to stop them from shaking. “We found a cell.”

Clint can imagine what they found, what kind of cell Hydra would need to contain the Winter Soldier, but he doesn’t want to. His eyes drop to Steve’s empty hands and he frowns. “Cap, where’s the gun?”

“Hm?” Steve asks. “Oh.” He turns back to the place where he was standing, and waves. “It’s okay. Come on down.”

Clint braces himself for pretty much anything and anyone, but he totally fails to be prepared for a young, black dude with motherfucking wings appearing out of nowhere and landing next to Steve. He’s got the gun, and he looks pretty wary, but Clint isn’t paying any attention to that, because _wings_.

“Oh my god,” Clint says, stepping forward and forgetting all about the whole potentially-getting-shot thing. “Those are the shit.” He stops, one hand up and almost, but not quite, touching.

The dude preens, wings spreading out, before tucking in against his body. They’re metal, dark grey and shiny, and so fucking beautiful that Clint may just die of envy. 

“Glad you like ‘em, buddy,” he says. “Don’t touch.” Clint drops his hand, but the guy laughs. “I’m only messing. Touch all you like.”

“Samuel Wilson?” Phil asks, interrupting before Clint can fully geek out. “I’m Director Coulson with SHIELD, this is Agent Barton.”

“Clint Barton,” Clint interrupts, doesn’t mean to, just finds himself doing it. “Not totally sure I’m with SHIELD.”

Phil stares at him. Clint stares back. Phil’s shoulders sag. “I’m Phil,” he says, holding out his hand to Wilson.

Everyone shakes hands with everyone else, and it’s all very nice and formal, Steve’s 1940s soul is probably singing, but they also kind of need to get out of here. 

“C’mon,” Clint says. “Don’t really want a Triskelion on my head.”

Wilson laughs. “Nah, man, I’ve had that once.” He claps Clint on the back and takes half the files Clint found. They lead the way out of the wreckage, letting Phil and Steve follow along behind. They’re talking quietly, and Clint really wants to know what they’re saying, but does his best not to listen in.

“Where the hell have you been?” May demands as soon they step out into the sunlight. All the others are with her, and it looks like they’ve decided to steal half the insides of the Triskelion. Her eyebrows climb. “And you made friends.”

“That’s Captain America,” Skye breathes, sounding kind of like she’s given up on reality and is hanging out in a dreamworld. 

“That man has _wings_ ,” Triplett mutters back at her, sounding even more impressed than she did.

“Okay everyone, back on the bus,” Phil says, making an honest to god hurry-up motion with his hands. He turns to Steve and Wilson. “Gentlemen, will you join us?”

***

Steve looks relaxed inside the Bus, because Steve has a habit of looking relaxed everywhere. He stands in the middle of FitzSimmons’s lab, shield clasped in front of himself, looking around and nodding when they show him stuff, but Clint’s pretty sure that he’s one wrong move away from taking the whole place down. 

Clint would be too, if SHIELD had tried to kill him a handful of days ago.

Wilson sidles up beside Clint, wings tucked away into some kind of neat little backpack thingy. Clint is so jealous. 

“Sweet plane, man,” Wilson says.

“Thanks,” Clint says, but nods at Phil. “It’s his. I’m just a hitching a ride.”

Wilson cocks his head. “Yeah? Where’re you going?”

Clint decides to try diplomacy, just once, since he’s not sure he should tell Wilson that Natasha sent them as backup for Steve. 

“Hydra hunting,” he says. He looks across at Steve, wonders if he wants to get into this whole thing. Of course he does, he realises; there was never any question. “Hey, Wilson?”

“Call me Sam,” he says. He grins at Clint. “You’ve already checked out my wings. That’s gotta put us on first name terms.”

Clint laughs. “This whole Winter Soldier deal,” he says, still watching Steve to make sure he’s distracted. “Is he chasing a ghost, or do you think there’s any hope?”

“He’s chasing a ghost,” Sam says, no hesitation. “But I’m not gonna be the one who tells him to stop. Are you?”

Clint looks at Steve, who’s doing the full-on Charming the Fans thing with FitzSimmons, but looks exhausted underneath it, arms a little too close to his sides, which is what Clint does, too, when he’s in pain.

“No, he’s not,” Phil says, appearing out of nowhere. To be fair, Clint _was_ going to say exactly that.

“Sir?” Clint asks, while Sam straightens up, coming to something close to attention. Clint hides the grin. Military people can sense each other; he’s sure of it.

Phil knocks on the glass door and beckons Steve over. FitzSimmons come too, Simmons pushing Fitz’s chair over the threshold, while he bitches that he can do it himself.

“Captain,” Phil says, “Skye has taken a look at the files you found in Sergeant Barnes’s cell, and she thinks she may be able to narrow your search area.” Steve’s eyes light up so fast that it’s painful to watch, but Phil holds up a hand. “It’s not much, but it’s a start. And, if you’ll accept the offer, Agent...” He shoots Clint an apologetic look. “Clint and I would like to help you.”

“Definitely,” Clint agrees quickly. He wants to kick Hydra ass, but he’s better at missions that are about people; he’s not very good at killing strangers. (Well he is, he’s fucking fantastic at it, but he doesn’t like it much.) 

Plus, you know, Captain America needs his help.

“No, that’s okay,” Steve says. “You guys have got your own mission.”

“My team needs some downtime, which leaves Clint and I at loose ends,” Phil says, waving a hand around the Bus. “If we can be of any help to you in the meantime, we’d be honoured to... do that.”

“You started so well,” Clint whispers.

Phil stares straight ahead, as though that will mean he isn’t blushing. “Shut up.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, either not noticing them muttering, or pretending not to. “That means a lot.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, not sounding quite so convinced, “does this mean you’re gonna be staying in my house, now, too?”

***

Clint doesn’t know DC as well as some other cities, but Sam’s house seems like it’s in a pretty nice neighbourhood. 

They probably ruin that when the Bus hovers thirty feet in the air over the nicely maintained sidewalk and lets the four of them out onto Sam’s roof.

But whatever.

“We could have walked,” Sam says, after they’ve waved May off and climbed in through his skylight. “Also, what is it with you guys and windows?”

“It’s more fun,” Clint says, taking a look around. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.” Sam starts pointing out rooms. “Bathroom. Spare bedroom. My bedroom; do not go in there. I’m assuming you guys sleep and shower?”

“Big fan of both those things,” Clint promises. He shrugs his shoulder, making the two bags slung over it swing. “Where are we setting up?”

Sam shows them downstairs, and they get a research station set up on his breakfast table. In Clint’s experience, it’s best to make Phil do all the fiddly, research bits, but Steve sits down in front of one pile of folders and puts on his Determined face.

It’s getting dark, but no one comments on that; they just grab a file each and get to work.

***

Clint blinks his eyes open and sits up in a rush, chest tight with panic that it might have all been a dream.

Across the table, Phil looks up from his tablet and frowns at him.

Clint lets out an uneven breath and rubs a hand across his face. He should have wanted it to be a dream, he realises. Even getting Phil back shouldn’t have been worth losing SHIELD.

(He never wanted it to be a dream.)

Steve’s still hard at work and Sam’s nowhere to be seen, but Phil nods at the doorway, so Clint follows him out, even though his heart is still pounding too fast.

“Are you all right?” Phil asks softly, once they’re in the hallway.

“Haven’t we had this conversation?” Clint asks, trying to sound steady.

Phil just continues looking at him.

“I got scared that you weren’t really back,” Clint admits, in a rush. “I know that’s fucked up. I know that...” He reaches out a hand, doesn’t really have a destination in mind, but ends up with it pressed against Phil’s chest. “Phil.”

Phil steps right up into his space, arms sliding around Clint’s waist. “I’m here,” he promises. He presses his forehead to Clint’s. “Are you here?”

“I’m here,” Clint says. He can feel Phil’s breath on his lips, and he knows that Phil’s waiting, that Phil wants to kiss him, but he’s waiting, because of what Clint said earlier.

Clint tips his face to the side, just enough that their noses brush, and presses his mouth to Phil’s. 

Phil moves his lips carefully against Clint’s, sucking on Clint’s lower lip so lightly that it feels like everything’s made of cobwebs and might shatter any second.

Clint uncurls his tongue and presses it to the space between Phil’s lips, belatedly closing his eyes when the tip of Phil’s tongue meets the tip of his.

Phil opens up for him then, making the kiss deeper and wetter than Clint was expecting. It’s exactly what Clint needs. He grabs Phil by the shoulders and pulls him in, pulling him off balance, until Phil has to slap a hand against the wall to not fall straight into Clint.

Clint pushes up against him, wanting to feel Phil’s strength everywhere. He’s considering the quickest way to put his hands on Phil’s skin, when there’s a sharp, startled sound from the doorway.

“Sorry,” Steve says, cheeks flushing red. “I’m sorry.”

Clint drops his hands from Phil, then puts them back when it hurts to let go. Phil keeps one hand on Clint’s hip.

“S’okay, probably shouldn’t have been doing that here.” Clint tries to smile, but it falls flat. Steve’s blush is fading fast and it's taken all the color from his face with it, until he’s the kind of whitish-grey that would worry Clint a lot, if Steve weren’t a supersoldier.

“Captain?” Phil asks, sounding like he’s worrying.

“I...” Steve blinks, shakes his head at himself. “I just wanted to make sure you guys were okay. But you clearly are, so I’ll just be...” He jerks towards the kitchen.

Clint frowns. He knows all the jokes Stark tells about Steve being a blushing virgin, but it’s obviously not true and he’s obviously not a prude, so Clint doesn’t get why a little kissing would have freaked him out so bad. 

“Everything okay, Cap?” he asks carefully. Clint refuses to believe that he’s being weird about the gay thing.

Steve flashes him a smile that Clint recognises from old newsreels and Avengers publicity events. In other words, a totally fake one.

“Of course.” He rubs his hands together. “Well, back to work.”

“We’re going to head to bed,” Phil says, surprising Clint and managing to make Steve do the blush/blanch thing again. “It’s almost midnight and we’ve had a long day.”

“Yes, sure, sorry.” Steve smiles again and it’s slightly less fake. Maybe. “You guys take the spare bedroom; I’m probably not going to sleep, anyway.”

Clint expects a full round of _are you sure? Are you sure you’re sure?_ but it doesn’t come. Phil just nods smartly, and leads Clint to the stairs with a hand on his elbow.

“Night, Cap,” Clint calls over his shoulder. He looks back at Steve and catches sight of him watching them with what Clint's fairly certain is longing shuddering across his face, before he steps back into the shadows, out of sight.

***

Clint isn’t sure whether it’s Steve’s weird reaction, or whether Phil actually is as tired as he says, but they don’t fall on each other as soon as they’re in Sam’s spare room.

Phil just sits down on the bed and looks like he’s forgotten how to move.

“Hey,” Clint says, sitting down beside him.

“Hi,” Phil says. He reaches out and curls his hand against Clint’s thigh, so Clint puts his hand over Phil’s. “Hell of a day.”

“Hell of a... shit.” Clint laughs. “It’s been so long, I can’t remember a regular day.”

Phil almost smiles, just a little twitch of his lips. “Me neither.” He strokes Clint’s leg with his thumb. “Do you mind if we just sleep?”

Clint squeezes Phil’s hand, hard. “Sleeping with you sounds...” He can’t put into words what it sounds like. It sounds like Heaven, he guesses. “Yeah.”

Phil slides his hand free, then stands up with a long, tired groan. He looks around the room - checking for ingress and exit points, Clint knows - then closes the door. It’s a bedroom, not a hotel, so there’s no lock on the door.

“We could put a chair under it?” Clint offers.

Phil looks like he’s considering it, then shakes his head. “That feels a little rude,” he says.

Clint laughs. “Oh yeah, wouldn’t want to be rude when the whole world’s trying to kill us.”

“Don’t exaggerate.” Phil smiles at him. “It’s only three-quarters of the world.”

Clint can’t manage another laugh. It comes out shaky and more like a sigh. _I love you_ , he thinks, but he’s definitely forgotten how to say that.

***

They get ready for bed as much as they can with stuff stolen from Sam’s bathroom, then climb into separate sides of the bed.

Clint stares up into space, trying to calm his pulse. For a second, he misses his nice, quiet Hydra cell and all the drugs that kept him calm. 

“Should I turn out the light?” Phil asks.

“No,” Clint says then, “Yeah. Please.”

Phil doesn’t call him on his inability to make up his mind, just hits the switch by the bed. It’s not that dark; the streetlights outside and the lights that are on in the rest of the house make it sepia at best. Clint can still see Phil, the rise and fall of his chest that’s more or less a goddamn miracle.

Clint rolls onto his side, reaches out a hand, and lays it on Phil’s breast bone. He’s wearing a thin, white undershirt, and his skin is warm and a little sweaty under it. 

“Come here?” Phil asks, barely above a whisper.

Clint moves closer, half-expecting the delayed sexing to finally happen, but Phil rolls when he does, presenting his back to Clint and dragging Clint’s arm across his chest.

They don’t usually fit themselves together like this. Clint is broader and probably stronger than Phil, but Phil’s almost always the one who holds him; Clint pretty much always needs that.

It makes Clint feel tentative to be the one curling up against Phil’s back, wrapping his arms around him. He kisses the back of Phil’s neck, then presses his face against it.

“Are you okay?” Clint asks, since Phil keeps asking him and Phil is clearly not.

Phil laces their fingers together and squeezes. “No,” he says. He squeezes again. “But I’m better than I was.”

“You want to talk about the not-better parts?” Clint asks. He’s not sure he wants to know what exactly Phil’s been through, but if Phil had to go through it, Clint can at least listen.

“One day,” Phil says. “Not yet. I’d like to sleep, now.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, pressing closer still. “Phil?” he whispers.

“Mm?” Phil asks.

If Clint breathes with his mouth and nose pressed into Phil’s hair; he can smell him, all the familiar smells of _Phil_ , and it relaxes something in his belly. “I’m so glad you’re not dead.”

Phil shivers all over and presses back into Clint’s arms. “You too.”

***

Clint wakes up to a deeper darkness and warm breath against his throat. He fumbles sleepily until he’s got both hands on Phil’s skin, then prepares to fall back to sleep.

“Did I wake you up?” Phil asks quietly. He never whispers at night, because he says whispers wake people up. 

“Don’t know, what did you do?” Clint mumbles. Lips press against the skin under his jaw, and he sucks in a breath before he can help it. “Seducing me?”

Phil hums. “No, just wanted to kiss you. Go back to sleep.”

Clint moves around, just enough that he knows where his limbs are and can slot them together with Phil’s. “Phil,” he says, “please.”

Phil doesn’t ask if he’s sure, he just kisses him. Then he pulls back and stays like that, mouth an inch from Clint’s.

“What?” Clint asks (he doesn’t whine; he really doesn’t). 

“Nothing,” Phil says, even though the way his voice breaks definitely suggests that it’s something. “I thought you were dead.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say. He knows how Phil feels and he knows there’s nothing he can say to take away just how much it hurt. He puts his hand on Phil’s cheek and rubs his fingertips over Phil’s temple.

Phil always gets a headache there when he’s tired; Clint had forgotten he knew that.

Phil lowers his head, letting the weight of it rest in Clint’s hand. “It took me a long time to recover, and I kept asking for you, but no one would tell me anything. When I was stronger, Nick told me you’d been killed.” 

Clint doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to share how he felt about Phil being dead, but it’s only fair. “Natasha told me after the Battle,” he says, “about you.” He opens his mouth, closes it again. His eyes are stinging and his throat feels suddenly thick. “It was my fault.”

“No,” Phil says immediately. “No, Clint, of course it wasn’t.”

Clint turns his head to the side, so the little bit of wetness leaking out of his eyes gets soaked up by the pillow and hopefully Phil won’t notice in the dark. “I freed Loki. I got you killed.”

Phil brushes his fingers across Clint’s cheeks, because of course, Phil notices everything. “It’s a good thing neither of us is actually dead, then, isn’t it?”

Shit, Clint doesn’t want to talk anymore. He surges up, kisses Phil, and keeps kissing him, even when Phil tries to say something else. After a second, Phil leans towards Clint, licking into his mouth.

It’s dark and quiet, and Clint can let his eyes fall shut and pretend that they’re home, back in their old apartment, that nothing has changed.

Clint pushes his hands under the hem of Phil’s t-shirt, spreading his fingers wide to see how much of Phil’s skin he can feel. Clint’s shaking, but so is Phil, body trembling under Clint’s unsteady hands. 

Phil pulls away and presses kisses to Clint’s face instead of his mouth, slow, tender presses of his lips that make Clint feel ever more unsteady.

Clint drags in a noisy breath. “You don’t need to be so gentle,” he says. What he means is _please don’t or I’m gonna cry and you know you hate that_.

“I think I do,” Phil says. “Clint, you can’t imagine how...” 

“I can,” Clint says with feeling. He pulls Phil down, one leg curling around the back of Phil’s thigh. When that doesn’t get them close enough, he rolls them, flipping positions, so he’s blinking down at Phil’s shadowy face.

“Hi,” Phil says, his teeth a small flash of white in the darkness when he smiles. 

“Yeah,” Clint says and sits up, pulling his t-shirt over his head. Phil watches him, eyes shining, so Clint keeps going, losing all his clothes until he’s naked and braced over Phil. 

“You’re beautiful,” Phil says, touching two fingers to Clint’s stomach. Phil has always said shit like that. Secretly, all the way deep down inside, Clint has missed hearing it so much.

“It’s dark,” Clint mutters. “Everything’s beautiful in the dark.” He puts his hand over Phil’s mouth before he can argue. “Your turn.” 

Phil manages to be graceful even while getting undressed, while lying down, in the dark. Clint holds his breath and waits until Phil’s clothes are all on the floor, then he pounces. He makes the kiss fast and dirty this time, racing to keep ahead of his thoughts and Phil’s thoughts and anything else that might slow them down. 

Phil groans and grips Clint’s back tight, muffling a louder sound against Clint’s tongue. Clint spares a quick thought to Sam and Steve, who probably don’t want to wake up to a porn soundtrack in the middle of the night, but then Phil glides his hands down Clint’s back and takes firm hold of Clint’s asscheeks and Clint forgets all about them.

“Shit,” Clint says, rolling up onto his knees so he can push his ass into Phil’s hands. He presses his forehead against Phil’s, just for a second, then moves to slide down his body. He really wants Phil’s cock in his mouth; it’s been so long.

“No, don’t,” Phil says, almost as soon as Clint starts moving. He grips Clint's biceps, holding him in place tightly enough that Clint would have to put effort into breaking away, the kind of strength that comes from desperation.

“Hey, what?” Clint asks, hovering uncertainly. “What did I do?”

Phil laughs, a shaky, not-amused sound, and unclenches his hands. “Nothing, nothing, I’m sorry.” He rubs his palms over Clint’s biceps. “I’m sorry.”

Clint shrugs and gives up on the idea of blowjobs for now. He leans back down over Phil, making sure Phil can feel the press of his chest and thighs and hips all the way down. “S’okay. I’ll just stay up here, then?”

“Yes, do you mind? I’d rather you weren’t that far away.” He does the not-a-laugh again. “I know that that’s pathetic.”

“Nah.” Clint leans in and kisses Phil’s jaw, the skin behind his ear. “Kind of nice.” 

Clint shifts against him, then frowns when his right pec rubs against something other than the soft chest hair that he was expecting. 

“What’s - ?” Clint asks, bringing his hand up. The skin over the left side of Phil’s chest is bumpy and uneven, hard in patches. It’s too dark to really see, but Clint can make out the different play of shadows over it. “Oh, shit.”

“It’s not as bad as it seems,” Phil says, which is pretty unconvincing considering that this is hard evidence that he got stabbed in the fucking heart.

Clint pulls away a little, just needing some space, enough cool air to blow away the ringing in his ears.

“Clint,” Phil says. He touches him on the shoulder, but doesn’t try to pull him back down or make him go anywhere he doesn’t want to go.

“I’m good,” Clint lies, or maybe it’s not a lie. He runs his hands across Phil’s scars, marvelling at how fucking miraculous it is that Phil is walking, talking, and breathing after something like this. “Jeez, Coulson, go big or go home?”

Phil laughs, one long, shaky note. “You know me, I like to make a statement.”

Clint feels his heart seize up again. “ _Phil_.”

“Come back down here,” Phil says, just enough force to it that it’s an order, if Clint wants it to be.

Clint folds down into Phil’s chest. He wraps his arms around Phil and Phil does the same, both of them holding on way tighter than they should and neither of them mentioning it. Phil’s thigh ends up between Clint’s and Clint’s ends up between his, and they move together, rolling their hips like this is their first time.

It’s not even about getting off, though that would be nice; everything has zeroed down to each individual inch of Clint’s skin where it’s rubbing against Phil’s. Clint feels like they’re starting little fires, bringing all his numb places back to life.

Clint keeps pressing closer, and Phil presses back, mouth falling open as he draws in breath, and their kiss stops being a kiss and starts just being a clash of teeth and groans. Their cocks bump, then bump again, and Clint gasps, grinding down.

Phil curses and clutches at Clint, one hand on his ass and the other on the back of his thigh. Clint hopes he gets bruises; he wants to wear this night straight through whatever they’re going to face tomorrow.

“Will you judge me, if I come?” Phil asks, rutting up against Clint’s groin.

Clint shakes his head, manages to make a nuh-uh kind of noise.

“Thank god,” Phil says and three thrusts later, he does, getting Clint’s cock and balls all wet and slick.

“Shit,” Clint says with feeling, and shoves a hand down between them, jerking himself off in quick, desperate strokes.

He slumps as soon as he’s done, the time of night catching up with him, but Phil supports his weight, drags him down into a kiss that turns into a pretty clingy hug.

“Hi, sir,” Clint murmurs into Phil’s hair, confident that Phil’s too close to sleep to really hear him.

It’s forever endearing that Phil can’t stay awake after sex. He goes soft-eyed and pliant, pressing himself against Clint’s side and mumbling something Clint doesn’t catch.

“What?” Clint asks, but Phil just sighs, sounding bone deep exhausted, but content.

“Love you,” Phil tells him, kissing Clint’s bare shoulder.

Clint’s arms tighten around Phil, tighter than he means them to. “God, yes,” he says and lays his hand over Phil’s scar. He can’t help wondering why he’s the one who got this lucky, why not one of the hundreds of other people who lost someone to Loki, but he’s not going to take a gift like this for granted.

***

Clint doesn’t go back to sleep. He wants to; he’s got a massive deficit to catch up on and he wants to sleep for a week, but his brain is racing. 

Sometime around dawn, Phil rolls away, sprawling across his own side of the bed. Clint doesn’t try to stop him, even though his arms feel empty and his chest feels cold without him.

Clint sits up, swinging his legs off the bed and wondering if this crawling feeling under his skin is ever going to go away. He just got laid; he should be able to relax.

He rubs his eyes, switching fingers at the last minute so he doesn’t get spunk in them. He rubs them ‘til they blur, then rubs them even harder.

There’s a big window in the wall nearest to the bed, looking out over other people’s yards, and the rooftops of Sam’s closest neighbours. They probably should have closed the curtains. The world looks far away and less overwhelming when it’s out of focus, but he blinks the blur away anyway, bringing everything back into sharp clarity.

Then he frowns, leaning forward. The house opposite Sam’s is on a slope, so it ends up slightly lower than Sam’s. Clint can see something gleaming in the pale light on its roof, maybe one hundred feet away.

It could be a TV antenna, he guesses, but it looks too thick and too shiny. All of Clint’s instincts are telling him it’s out of place.

Clint glances back at the bed, but Phil’s sleeping soundly, mouth slightly open, and Clint doesn’t want to wake him. He gets dressed quickly, picking up his shoes and padding out of the bedroom.

Downstairs is finally deserted; Steve must have given in and gone to bed, eventually (Clint wonders where he’s sleeping, probably not with Sam, although that isn’t a _bad_ mental image). Clint lets himself out the front door, stealing some keys off the side table on his way, and heads out onto the street.

It’s harder to navigate from street level, but Clint has a lot of experience. He jumps one garden fence, ducks around behind a house, and presses his back against a tree to keep himself in shadow when he glances upwards.

Snipers don’t exactly have a sixth sense for finding each other, no matter what Sitwell always claims (claimed) about Clint and Wade Wilson. But Clint knows how to look where other people wouldn’t, so he’s not exactly surprised when he spots the smooth curve of silver metal and a couple wisps of dark hair, moving on the breeze.

“This is probably a bad idea,” Clint says to himself, and darts out into the open. It’s a risk, he knows he might get his head blown off, but it’s one worth taking.

He doesn’t get his head blown off. 

All things considered, he’s pretty pleased about that, since he imagines Phil would take it badly.

No one in Sam’s neighbourhood seems to have heard of crime, since there aren’t any motion detections and the walls are all childsplay. It’s really simple for Clint to scale the side of the house and haul himself up onto the roof, without attracting attention. From there, he can creep along to the edge, over what he thinks is probably the kitchen, and crawl across to the roof of the garage.

A hand reaches out from nowhere and grabs Clint by the collar, picking him up and flipping him over onto his back. Clint lands with a crunch on uneven roof tiles, at least one cracking under his weight.

“Ow, fuck,” Clint groans, and looks up into the pale, stubbled face of a guy who has to be the Winter Soldier.

(Like, he _has_ to be: he has a metal arm. And he looks like someone who’s been frozen and defrosted so many times he’s forgotten how to get warm.)

“Dude,” Clint says, “I’m not your enemy.”

“That’s not your call to make,” the Winter Soldier says, and punches Clint in the stomach.

Clint wheezes and curls up instinctively, using the momentum to drive his knees into the Winter Soldier’s chest.

The Winter - fuck it, Barnes, Clint’s going to call him Barnes because he’s in the middle of a fight and _The Winter Soldier_ takes way too long to think - _Barnes_ doesn’t fall back quite as far or as hard as Clint would like. Clint blames the maybe-supersoldier theory, because there’s shit all wrong with his fighting style, okay?

A tile slides out from under Clint’s foot when he staggers up to his feet, but Barnes is balanced perfectly, weight on the balls of his feet, almost like he’s gonna dance. Clint punches him in the face, before he gets a chance.

This time Barnes does rock back, first onto his heels, then stumbling when the force of Clint’s punch sends him too close to the edge of the roof. Clint grabs him by the front of his ugly-ass jacket and drags him back forward. He guesses falling off the roof wouldn’t kill Barnes, but it still seems kind of shitty to maim a dude who doesn’t know what he’s doing.

As a thank you, Barnes shoves him, once, twice, until Clint’s trips over the apex of the roof and falls backwards. He makes sure to bring Barnes down with him, since it’s only fair. They roll together, Barnes mostly punching and Clint mostly avoiding those punches, until they come to a startled stop, Clint on top and Barnes’s head hanging off the edge of the roof, away into nothing.

“Why are you fighting me?” Clint shouts, up in Barnes’s face. He’s tired and he wants to go back to bed. He doesn’t want to be here, getting beaten up by a guy he’s supposed to be helping.

Barnes closes his eyes and doesn’t answer. His hands are on Clint’s chest, but he’s not clinging on, the way Clint’s sure he would be, if he was the one likely to fall ten feet right onto his head.

“What else should I do?” Barnes asks. He sounds confused, not cocky about it.

“Anything,” Clint says, thinking that should be obvious. He starts to move backwards, but Barnes finally clutches at him, pulling on Clint’s t-shirt. _That’s_ not going to save him, if he falls.

“C’mon, give me your hand,” Clint says, but Barnes tugs on his t-shirt hard and Clint almost falls, catching himself on the gutter at the last moment.

“Dude, you are making it really hard to remember why I’m not allowed to kill you,” Clint says through gritted teeth. He tries to shimmy backwards, but Barnes doesn’t let him move, and for the first time, it occurs to Clint that maybe he’s actually underestimated how likely he is to die here.

Clint drops his knees on either side of Barnes’s chest and grips him as tight as he can, then flips them. It’s a terrible flip since Clint’s got no leverage, but they both end up back on the roof, solid(ish) tile below them. Clint spies that broken piece of tile from earlier on his left, and fumbles for it, smashing Barnes in the head with it.

Barnes doesn’t go down, but he slumps forward, blood welling up along his temple.

Clint expects him to lash out again, has the tile raised in anticipation, but he doesn’t. He keeps his head down, eyes squeezed closed, almost like he’s waiting, almost like - 

Clint pushes him off and onto his ass, and scrambles up to his knees. “Oh my god, no, I’m not your executioner,” he says.

There’s a long pause. “Why not?” Barnes asks, voice quiet and gravelly. He doesn’t raise his head.

Clint feels a spike of anger, different from the adrenaline that’s been carrying him through. If Barnes thinks he can stage a fight and get Clint to murder him, he’s going to be very disappointed.

“Because you don’t get out that easy,” he says. “Because Steve is desperate to find you and I’m not gonna take that away from him.”

Barnes looks up. His eyes are wet, his mouth an uneven line. “You think this is _easy_?” he asks.

Hell. Clint crawls up the roof and sits down on the apex, rubbing at his aching ribs. “I’m Clint,” he says. “I used to work for SHIELD. You too, huh?”

Barnes stares at Clint. He seems confused, but that’s okay; Clint’s pretty confusing, he knows. “Alexander Pierce,” he says. “I worked for him. Before him, there was someone else.”

“I never liked Pierce that much,” Clint says. “You should meet Nick Fury; he’s pretty okay.”

Barnes hunches his shoulders in. “I met him,” he says. “I blew up his car, then I shot him.”

“Yeah, well, he got better.” Clint stretches his legs out, tries to act like this is really comfortable. 

Clint stares off into the distance, then freezes. He can see straight into Sam’s spare bedroom from here, Phil still flaked out in the middle of the bed. “Dude, were you watching us have sex?” 

Barnes frowns, but doesn’t answer. He looks confused, not embarrassed.

“Because, okay,” Clint says slowly, “We haven’t even been introduced and like, that guy in there, Phil? He would probably be all over Bucky Barnes watching him have sex, but...”

“I’m not him,” Barnes says. He glares at Clint, eyes cold and blank. “I’m not.” It sounds almost pleading, but Clint’s not going to call him on that.

Clint shrugs. He is way out of his depth when it comes to the shit happening in Barnes’s brain. “Right, so don’t watch us have sex.”

“I wasn’t watching you,” Barnes says slowly. “I saw you, but I wasn’t watching.”

Apparently there’s a difference, and apparently Clint’s supposed to know what that is.

“What were you doing, then?” Clint had assumed sniper, but there’s no gun up here. Unless Barnes’s fancy arm has a secret long-range rifle hidden inside it, Clint can’t think of a reason for Barnes to be here.

Barnes shakes his head. He drags himself up and sits next to Clint, not close enough to touch.

“I need to finish my mission,” he says, quietly, almost to himself.

“What’s that?” Clint asks, but Barnes doesn’t answer. He does a lot of ignoring of Clint’s questions.

Clint’s been watching Phil, on and off, but he’s still sleeping, so he switches his attention to the other windows he can see. Sam’s up, standing in the kitchen doing something on the stove and - oh.

Steve’s in the sun room, tucked into what looks like an old lawn chair. His head’s tipped back and he’s clearly asleep. He looks kind of ridiculous, with his too-long legs sticking off the end and his upper body twisted because there’s no room for the width of his shoulders between the armrests.

Clint glances across at Barnes, who doesn’t look like _ridiculous_ is the thought he’s having.

“You watching him?” Clint asks, doing his very, very best not to sound like he’s judging anyone for anything.

“No,” Barnes says then, “Yes.” He frowns, rubs his face with his metal hand. His other arm is held tight against his side, though Clint doesn’t remember hitting him there. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The adrenaline is leeching fast out of Clint’s body, and he yawns. “You maybe want to not-know what you’re doing inside the house?”

He knows it’s probably a mistake way before he says it, but he risks it, anyway. He could stay up here all day, he’s done worse, but he really doesn’t want to. 

Barnes doesn’t exactly tense, because he’s already rock solid, and he doesn’t move away, because he doesn’t look like a guy who ever backs down. But his eyes go completely blank, which is when Clint realises there’d been some life in them, before.

“No,” he says, “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can, I’ll help you down,” Clint says, deliberately pretending to misunderstand. Well, not pretending; he doesn’t actually understand what the problem is, but he knows it isn’t Barnes’s ability to climb off a roof.

Barnes turns to face him. His face is grey-white in the morning light, his eyes big, pale circles that don’t do a thing to help him look less like a zombie. “It’s better that I stay out here, trust me.” 

Clint has never been known to let anything go. “Why?” he asks.

He’s expecting be ignored again; hell, he’s not even taking it personally anymore. Instead, Barnes sucks on his lower lip for a second then says, voice almost too quiet to catch, “Because I’ll kill him. I don’t want to kill him.”

Shit, Clint is so stupidly out of his depth. “We’re not gonna let you kill anyone,” he says, which just earns him a harsh, unhappy laugh.

“You couldn’t stop me,” Barnes says. “No one can stop me. I always - ” He freezes, somehow managing to grow tenser. Then he jumps to his feet.

Clint follows him up, hoping there’s not going to be another fight and wishing he had his bow. There’s a gentle whir of machinery and the just-risen sun gets obliterated by the spread of dark, gleaming wings.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Clint says quickly, just before Sam lands on the roof. He’s still wearing an apron, _What’s Cookin’ Good Lookin’?_ printed across his chest and his expression is somewhere between cautious and pissed.

“‘morning, Sam,” Clint say cheerfully. “Look who I found.”

“Yeah, I see,” Sam says, clicking his wings back into place. “Hey, man.”

Barnes takes two steps away from Sam, which puts him two steps closer to Clint. Clint guesses he’s kind of flattered by that.

“Sam, weren’t you making breakfast?” Clint asks, then widens his eyes meaningfully when Sam looks over at him.

“Sure I was,” Sam agrees. “Pancakes, bacon, eggs, the whole shebang.” He looks at Barnes and smiles a small smile. “You hungry?”

Barnes shakes his head. He looks like a trapped animal, and Clint would feel worse about that, except he’s not really trapped. There’s plenty of roof he could take off across and be gone. He’s choosing to stay, even if it’s freaking him out, and that’s got to be a good sign.

“No?” Clint asks. “I’m starving.” He makes himself laugh. “Not that I have any idea if my buddy Sam over there knows how to cook.”

“Excuse you, I know how to cook,” Sam says. He holds out his hand to Barnes. “Sam Wilson. We haven’t been properly introduced.”

Barnes blinks twice. “I broke your wings.”

“You also shot at me kind of a lot, and tore my steering wheel out of my hands while I was driving,” Sam says. “That wasn’t nice, man. But I’m the forgiving sort and Cap’s friend Iron Man fixed my wings, so I’m prepared to forgive and forget _and_ feed you pancakes.”

“Why are you trying to feed me?” Barnes asks. He doesn’t ask it like Clint would, kind of frustrated and annoyed; he sounds totally confused, like a little kid who’s never met a social convention before.

“Because that’s what friends do,” Sam says.

Barnes stays completely still for a second, then his shoulders hitch. He shakes his head hard, folding his metal arm across his chest. “No,” he says. He sounds like he’s saying no to everything: pancakes, friends, the whole thing.

“Yes,” Clint says, “Sorry.”

Barnes makes a noise, kind of harsh and broken, and Sam looks quickly at Clint. “How about you head on back?” he says. “Put some coffee on? Pancakes are staying warm in the oven.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. He doesn’t know what Sam’s play is, but he seems to have one, which is almost good enough. Only almost, because Barnes feels a little like Clint’s responsibility now. “You okay with that?”

Barnes looks at him and frowns. “Yeah,” he says, not really sounding sure.

“If you want, if you decide to take us up on breakfast, I could take a look at that arm,” Clint says, taking one last shot. Barnes looks down at his metal arm, but Clint shakes his head. “The other one. It’s hurt, right?”

Barnes’s frown gets deeper. “Dislocated. I put it back in. It shouldn’t still hurt.”

Jeez. “Yeah, well, your choice,” Clint promises. He waves at them both. “I’ll be seeing you.” He steps backwards off the roof, just because he likes being a showy asshole, and catches the gutter on the way down.

Of course, he forgets about his aching ribs, so that’s maybe not the best plan, but he doesn’t die. It’s all good.

***

Clint does as Sam asked when he gets back to the house, heading straight for the kitchen and filling the coffee maker with enough juice to feed them all caffeine for a good, long time.

Then he decides he’d really like to see Phil’s face, so he turns to head for the stairs.

“Clint?” he hears before he gets very far, and finds Steve, stirring sleepily on the lawn chair. He looks even more uncomfortable up close. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Clint says automatically. He’s going to tell Steve about Barnes, of course he is, then he thinks about how Sam might not succeed in getting Barnes to come home with him, how massive a disappointment that would be. He can keep quiet for a couple more minutes. “Sleep okay?”

Steve sits up and rubs his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Did you? And Agent Coulson?”

Oh right, that. Clint had forgotten about that in all the excitement. “Look, man,” he says. “About yesterday, when you saw me and Phil - ” dry humping against a wall “ - kissing?”

“There’s no need to apologise for that,” Steve says quickly, which is nice, Clint guesses, but it still gets his back up.

“Well, good because I wasn’t fucking going to.” Clint takes a breath, lets it out slowly. “I mean. I just wanted to make sure things weren’t gonna be weird?”

“Why would things be weird?” Steve asks. 

“I don’t know, maybe ‘cause you kind of seemed like you’d walked in on the Red Skull kissing Hitler?” Whoops, Clint was going to be calm, wasn’t he? In his defence, it’s been kind of a rough day and it’s barely even light, yet.

“That’s.” Steve blinks. “That’s a horrible thought to put in a person’s head, Clint.” Then his expression turns serious. “I don’t have a problem with men kissing. I’m so sorry that you thought that.”

“You don’t?” Clint asks doubtfully. “I mean, I get that like, the forties were different and - ”

Steve laughs. “There were a lot of queer men and women in the forties; about as many as there are now. Bucky used to take me to these dances, drag balls they called them. He thought they were a hoot.”

Well, that’s a mental image. Clint tries to picture that sad guy outside thinking anything’s a hoot and fails. “So what was with the look?” he asks.

Steve shrugs, looks awkward. He’s got a pattern of criss-crosses across his cheek from the chair; it’s endearing. “I guess I thought we were all as alone as each other, so it was a shock when I saw that you two were involved. I know that’s really selfish; I’m sorry.”

“No, shit, that’s okay,” Clint says quickly, feeling like a dick. “Look, I need to tell you something.” He puts his hand on Steve’s arm preemptively, not that that’s going to do a damn thing if Steve decides to charge out there. “Your boy’s out there, having a chat with Wilson.”

“What?” Steve goes tense, like he’s preparing to crash through the fucking window if that will get him to Barnes quicker. “Bucky’s out there?”

“You need to stay in here,” Clint says, tightening his grip on Steve’s (very firm) bicep. “He’s about as skittish as a kicked cat, right now. I think he’d run if he saw you.”

Steve’s face had been frozen somewhere between fear and hope, now it just falls. “Should I leave? I just want him to be safe.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’ll help either.” Clint thinks about Barnes, half frozen on a garage roof, watching Steve sleep. “In fact, that’ll probably make it worse.”

“Okay.” Steve nods. “Right.” He looks up at Clint. “What should I do?”

Well, that’s not a thing Clint ever thought Captain America was going to say to him. He thinks fast. “There are pancakes in the oven. How about you serve them up and like, find some maple syrup and shit? I’ll go wake Phil.”

“Okay,” Steve says again. Clint lets go of his arm, but Steve catches his wrist before he can go far. “Thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Clint says. “But you’re welcome.”

***

Phil’s eyes open as soon as Clint opens the bedroom door, but he doesn’t look like he’s been awake much before that.

“Morning,” he says, voice still thick from sleep. He holds out a hand, which Clint takes willingly. “You’re cold.”

“Been outside,” Clint says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Then he second guesses that plan, kicks off his shoes, and crawls back under the covers.

Phil wraps his arms around him and doesn’t complain when Clint presses cold hands to his bare back. 

“So, two things,” Clint says. 

Phil hums. He’s mostly still asleep, but Clint’s pretty sure he’s about to fix that. 

“One, Cap’s not a raging homophobe.”

Yep, that wakes Phil up. “I never thought he was. Did you think he was? Did you _ask_ him?” He sounds scandalised. 

Clint hides a laugh in Phil’s throat. “Yeah, I asked him. Two, I’m pretty sure the Winter Soldier is about to stop by for breakfast.”

Phil sits up in a rush, which Clint desperately disapproves of. “Barton,” he says dangerously. “What exactly have you been doing?” He squints down at Clint, who tries to burrow into the mattress; _now_ he thinks he could sleep, when it’s no fucking use at all. “Did someone punch you?”

“Little bit?” Clint hazards, wincing when Phil runs his thumb over Clint’s cheekbone. “If it helps, I’m pretty sure he was just trying to annoy me into killing him.”

“That... no. That doesn’t help.” Phil pokes him in the soft part under his arm, until Clint sighs, groans, and sits up. “Two things,” Phil says, imitating Clint’s tone from earlier.

Clint sticks his tongue out at him.

“One, where else are you hurt? And two, what the hell is going on?”

Clint thinks about lying but, well, he’s had Phil back about thirty-six hours; he kind of wants to tell him about everything, all the time, just because he can. “Bruised ribs, what feels like an epic dent in my back, not much, really.”

Phil makes an unhappy noise. “Take your shirt off.”

“Why, Coulson,” Clint starts, but stops when Phil glares at him. Glares when Phil’s eyelids are still a bit puffy from sleep have always been super effective. “Yeah, okay.”

He pulls of his t-shirt, wincing the whole way, then sucks in a breath when Phil puts his hands on his ribs. It’s not a sexy touch, it’s definitely a medical touch, but it still feels good.

“Talk,” Phil reminds him, running his hands up Clint’s ribs.

Clint talks, filling Phil in on everything except the whole bit where Barnes maybe watched them have sex. Phil hums and frowns, but Clint can’t tell if it’s over Barnes or over Clint’s ribs.

“You’ll live,” Phil says when he’s done. “But I want to murder Zola for doing that to Sergeant Barnes.” 

Clint guesses that answers that question. “I’m pretty sure he’s already dead,” Clint says. “Like, double dead now, actually.”

“And yet,” Phil says ominously. He leans in and kisses Clint’s shoulder. “Next time you go rushing out to take on a potential assassin, take me with you.”

“Sure, it’s a date,” Clint says, meaning _only if you catch me en route_. 

Phil kisses Clint’s neck this time, and Clint shivers all over. Apparently, he’d missed the scratch of stubble on his skin, along with everything else.

“Are we making out?” Clint asks, then remembers Barnes and Sam and the view right into this room.

“No,” Phil says, but he kisses under Clint’s jaw, so that’s a mixed message. “We can’t make out, because Bucky Barnes could walk in at any moment and that’s a fantasy I left behind in adolescence.”

Clint laughs. He wraps his arms around Phil and leans into him, laying his head on Phil’s shoulder. “I love you so fucking much,” he says, at last.

“Because of my teenage crush on Bucky Barnes?” Phil asks.

“Because you’re you.” Clint sighs, tugging Phil closer. “You’re not gonna have a crush on this guy,” he warns. “He’s such a mess. I don’t know that this is gonna work out like Cap hopes.”

Downstairs, Clint hears the back door opening and shutting, and tenses up waiting to hear what happens next. He hears Steve say something, overly loud, and then silence.

“Should we?” Phil asks, shifting. Clint lets go, but just flops backward on the bed, ignoring his screaming ribs.

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Let’s give them a minute. I mean, what do I know, maybe they’re having a bro-hug-filled reunion, right now.”

“I’m sure that’s what’s happening,” Phil agrees dryly. “If I hear anything smash, we’re going down there.”

“Fair,” Clint agrees, and they wait. While they’re waiting, Clint gets comfy, eyes closed. Maybe he can have a nap. It’s not likely, with the way his heart is pounding in anticipation, but _maybe_.

He startles when Phil lays a hand on him, low on his belly, but Phil just smiles at him, so Clint closes his eyes again. He’s starting to relax, thinking that if nothing’s exploded yet, maybe it won’t, when someone knocks on the door and walks in.

“Hey, Barton,” Sam says, then stops. Clint opens his eyes and finds Sam looking down at Phil’s hand and Clint’s general shirtlessness for a second, before he snaps his attention back up. “Barton, we need you downstairs.”

Clint sits up, wincing halfway, and letting Phil grab his hand to pull him the rest of the way. “What’s up?” he asks. “Did you get Barnes down?”

“Got him down and into the house,” Sam says. He makes it sound like it was nothing, but Clint bets that was a challenge. “Now he’s refusing to do shit else and Cap looks like he’s about to have a breakdown.”

Phil holds out Clint’s t-shirt, which Clint takes gratefully. “And you think I can help with that?”

Sam shrugs. “He asked for you. Think you made a friend.”

“Well, that’s nice,” Clint says uncertainly. He stands up and looks down at Phil. “Coming?”

“In a minute,” Phil says, “best not to crowd him.”

Clint follows Sam to the top of the stairs, then takes the lead when Sam waves him to go in front. He finds Steve at the bottom of the stairs, staring miserably through the open door into the kitchen, where Barnes is standing, back against the fridge, and arms tightly folded.

There’s a stack of pancakes in the middle of the table and someone’s poured a glass of orange juice. It looks aggressively cheerful in the middle of the sad little scene.

“Awesome, food,” Clint says loudly, squeezing Steve’s shoulder as he steps past him, and barrelling into the room.

Clint’s good at being circumspect, but he’s also awesome at making a big entrance. His ways of not being noticed are the exact opposite of Phil’s.

“Dude,” he says, grinning at Barnes, “there you are. Nice of you to join us. Want some food?”

Barnes watches him closely, eyes tracking every move Clint makes, so Clint makes sure to keep his gestures big and open, exaggeratedly reaching for a plate and flipping two pancakes onto it.

“You had pancakes, before?” he asks. When Barnes doesn’t answer, he raises his voice. “Steve, did you have these in the forties?”

“We did,” Steve says cautiously. “Bucky liked them with butter and Vermont Maid syrup.”

“Huh, well, let's try that then,” Clint says, dropping a chunk of butter on top of the stack then picking up the maple syrup. He looks at Barnes. “Still got a sweet tooth?”

Barnes shrugs. It doesn’t look like he doesn’t care, more like he has no idea. 

Clint puts the syrup back down. “Okay, then, you can decide that one for yourself.” He pats the back of a chair and tries to look as benign as possible. “Come on. What are you waiting for?”

Barnes just looks lost. He pushes off from the fridge and walks over to Clint, but doesn’t sit down. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” he confesses, voice pitched quiet and confused.

“We’re having breakfast,” Clint says, hoping he’s not fucking this up completely. “That’s all. We don’t have any ulterior motives.”

“He does,” Barnes says, nodding toward Steve. Steve, who has supersoldier hearing and can apparently pick up whispers, jumps guiltily. 

“Yeah, he does,” Clint agrees, no sense lying. “But not bad ones.” He decides to take a gamble and puts his hand lightly on Barnes’s metal wrist. “Trust us?”

Barnes doesn’t answer; he definitely doesn’t agree, but he does sit down. Then he stares expectantly at Clint until Clint sits down, too. It’s a little like having breakfast with Lucky, but with way less drool and affection.

Clint takes some pancakes for himself, feeling a little guilty that they’re kind of stopping anyone else from getting their breakfast, then cuts into them anyway.

They’re good, Sam definitely can cook, and they get better when Clint picks up the maple syrup and drowns them in it. When he glances over at Barnes, he finds him doing exactly what Clint’s just done, right down to the size of the bite of pancake he’s loaded onto his fork.

Maybe it’s not like having a dog; maybe it’s like being imprinted on by a baby duckling.

They eat their pancakes. Barnes doesn’t give any indication whether he likes them or not, but he eats the whole thing, then picks up his orange juice without prompting, which makes Clint feels stupidly proud. 

“How do you feel about coffee?” Clint asks. Out of the corner of his eye, he’s aware that Phil has joined Steve on the stairs and that Sam’s watching from the doorway, but Barnes hasn’t reacted to it, so neither does Clint.

He’s not really expecting an answer but, after a minute, Barnes answers haltingly, “I think I like coffee.”

He pronounces it like Steve does, like a real New Yorker, and Clint hides a grin by turning to the coffee machine. “Cream?” he asks, filling a cup. “Sugar?”

“I don’t know,” Barnes says, but this time, he sounds frustrated rather than blank, which Clint thinks is probably a good sign.

“Eh, that’s okay.” Clint holds out the freshly-filled mug. “Try this, tell me if you want it to be sweeter or... creamier.”

Barnes reaches for the mug with his flesh and blood arm. He takes it, and Clint automatically lets go, only for Barnes to wince, his fingers spasming open and the mug falling to the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, jumping to his feet. His boots crunch on the shattered remains of the mug and Clint automatically holds up a hand, trying to keep him back. 

Barnes tenses, flinching back. He’s expecting to get hit; Clint recognises that look. 

“Hey, no.” Clint pulls his hand back sharply. “It’s fine. It’s fine, right, Sam?”

“Totally fine,” Sam agrees, sliding into the room. “I hated those mugs, anyway. They were a gift from my aunt.”

“See, totally fine.” Clint glances through the doorway to where Steve is now on his feet, only held back by Phil’s hand on his shoulder. “Let’s try that again.”

He pours himself a coffee and another for Barnes, making sure Barnes takes it with his metal hand, this time. “I’m sorry,” Barnes says again.

“Seriously, I drop shit all the time,” Clint says, shrugging. “You should let me look at your shoulder, though.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” Barnes says, stepping back away from Clint, like he thinks Clint’s going to grab him and forcibly relocate his arm.

“Buck,” Steve says softly. “A lot of people are worried about you.”

Barnes closes his eyes and doesn’t turn toward Steve. “He keeps calling me that,” he tells Clint.

Clint watches him, the way he’s so tense he’s practically vibrating, like a wire about to snap. Then he looks at Steve, who looks upset and out of his depth the way Steve never does. 

“I’ve got an idea,” Clint says, talking mostly to Phil because Phil can make anything happen. “Why don’t you guys go out for breakfast? We’ll be okay, here.”

Steve opens his mouth to object, and even Sam doesn’t look like he thinks that’s a good idea, but Phil straightens up and does his magical Agent Coulson thing. 

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” he says, with a look that tells Clint not to get himself killed. “Come on, gentlemen, Sergeant Barnes probably doesn’t need us all crowding him.”

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, as he’s being politely herded to the door. “We’ll be back soon.”

Barnes does a weird thing with his mouth, which Clint realises after a moment is supposed to be a smile. “Okay,” he says.

***

Barnes relaxes a little, as soon it’s just him and Clint in the house. Clint had been feeling guilty, thinking about Steve’s crushed expression, but this probably was a good idea.

“I’m not gonna make you do anything you’re not comfortable with,” Clint promises. “But I know how much a dislocated shoulder sucks.”

Barnes watches Clint in that creepy-focused way he has. Then all of a sudden, he nods and starts to peel his ratty jacket off.

Clint watches and doesn’t help, even though all his instincts are yelling at him that he should. Under his jacket, Barnes is wearing a black t-shirt, which has rips down one side, and some dark brown stains that are probably blood along the neckline.

“Okay, so I’m gonna have to touch you,” Clint warns. “You okay with that?”

Barnes takes a minute to answer. “Yes?” he says slowly, but it’s more like a question.

“I need you to be surer; I don’t want to go flying through the window,” Clint says. What he means is _I don’t want to be another asshole who did something to you without your consent_.

“I’m sure,” Barnes says. He takes a deep breath. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just stand right there. I’m gonna need to be behind you; I know that sucks.” Clint walks behind him and puts his hands on Barnes’s shoulders, just so he’ll know where Clint is, then runs one hand over Barnes’s right shoulder. The joint feels almost square under Clint’s hand, hot and puffy and probably painful as shit.

“Oh yeah, that’s dislocated,” he murmurs to himself. “I need you to bend your arm up ninety degrees, if you... Oh hey, you’re doing it. Careful.” 

Barnes makes a brief, cut-off sound of pain from behind his teeth, but he does what Clint asks, before Clint’s finished asking it. Clint guesses this isn’t his first dislocation.

“Okay, I’m sorry if this hurts,” Clint says. “Just yell, if you want me to stop.” He takes hold of Barnes’s arm firmly and starts turning it outward, waiting for the familiar pop of it relocating. 

It takes four tries. Barnes’s skin is slick with sweat by the time Clint’s done and Clint feels a lot like he’s going to puke. 

“Sit down,” Clint says, when he’s sure it’s in, then flops into a chair. “Christ.”

Barnes sits down too, rolling his arm around like he’s testing the fit. “Thank you,” he says. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why?” Clint asks. He wipes his sweaty hands on his thighs and takes a minute to feel bad for every time Natasha or Phil or Sitwell ( _fucking_ _Sitwell_ ) ever had to do that for him.

“I’m your enemy,” Barnes says, like it should be obvious. “It doesn’t make sense to repair an enemy’s weapon.”

“Yeah, that’s not a weapon, that’s your arm,” Clint tells him. “And what, are you going to kill me now?” He probably shouldn’t scoff, but he does.

“I could,” Barnes says, frowning.

“You could,” Clint says. “But you won’t.” He kicks the rungs of Barnes’s chair, the same way he would any guy he was hanging out with. “Don’t get all Big, Scary, and Russian on me now, kid.”

Barnes looks down at his hands, where he’s resting them on the table. “ _I’m_ a weapon. I kill people. That’s all I do.”

Fuck, it looks like Clint’s actually going to have this conversation. He drags his chair closer to the table and looks at Barnes over it. “So how many people do you think you killed while having no control over yourself?”

Barnes shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He taps his fingers on the table. “Me? I killed about 50.”

That gets Barnes looking at him. Clint knew it would.

Clint waves a hand. “This guy, it’s a long story, but he got in my head and made me do stuff I didn’t want to do, kill people who hadn’t done me any harm. And it was only for a week, which I know is nothing compared to what they did to you, but I remember everything I did and it sucks.”

“It’s not better,” Barnes says. “Not remembering.”

“No, I guess not,” Clint says, even though some days, he would dearly love not to remember the looks of betrayal on the faces of the men and women who Loki made him murder. “My point is that shitty things happened to you, just like they happened to me, but they weren’t your fault.”

“How do you fix it?” Barnes asks. “Can I fix it?”

“Fix what?” Clint asks. “Your brain? I don’t know. I did it by having really good friends and going to see a shrink like, fifty times a day.” 

He doesn’t mention that he’s not fixed. That his anxiety levels spike all the time and he sometimes has nightmares so bad he can’t shake them. 

“Way I see it, you’ve already got the friends, and SHIELD can probably set you up with a...” He trails off there because fuck. No they can’t. There is no SHIELD. How do regular people figure their lives out, with no SHIELD-shaped backup? “Well, my psychiatrist probably needs the work, now.” 

As long as she isn’t Hydra. Clint really hopes she isn’t Hydra.

“I don’t... I don’t think I’m fixable,” Barnes says. He gives Clint that smile again and Clint suddenly realises what it means; it means _I’m sorry_.

“Hey, hey, start with the little things,” Clint says, forcing his mind to go back to his own first few days after Loki. They feel like they’ve been covered in a blanket, thick and all-consuming, because every one of them is shrouded in Phil’s death. “Like... I don’t know. When was the last time you showered?”

Barnes pauses like he’s really thinking about it. “I remember Paris, mid-nineties. They needed me to fit in at a ball. I wore a tux.”

“I bet you looked hot,” Clint says. He stands up. “Come on. Your first little step can be showering.”

Barnes does not look convinced. 

Clint waits. He’s not going to cajole or really put any pressure on him at all. He gets the feeling that Barnes will do anything he’s _told_ to do, but that’s taking advantage of a shitty situation.

“Okay,” Barnes says at last, and stands up, too. “Will you guard the door?”

“Dude, it would be an honour,” Clint tells him.

***

By the time Phil brings Steve and Sam back, Barnes is clean and shiny and wearing clothes Clint stole from Sam’s wardrobe. They even found an elastic band to tie his hair back.

Steve looks overjoyed to see that he’s still here, but either someone’s had a word with him or he’s figured things out himself, because he keeps his distance and his, “Hey,” is less desperately eager than before.

“Hi,” Barnes says cautiously, and Steve’s whole face splits into a grin.

Clint pats Barnes on the arm and makes eyes toward the door, raising his eyebrow. 

Barnes looks torn then, “Yeah,” he says, “we should probably talk.”

“Steve,” Clint says, getting to his feet and sliding past Steve to get out of the room. Steve catches him before he goes.

“Thank you,” he says, sincerely.

Clint shrugs. “I haven’t done much,” he says. “Just tread lightly, okay?”

“Of course,” Steve promises, before letting Clint go and joining Barnes in the living room. 

Because Clint is super nosey and has never pretended otherwise, he lingers for a minute, looking in. 

Steve keeps his distance, but cannot keep the smile off his face. “We brought takeout,” he says, lifting a box. “It’s bagels. You used to... I think you’ll like them.”

“Thanks,” Barnes says, less of that hesitant pause than before. “Do you want to sit down?”

Clint ducks away then, leaving Steve and Barnes in peace, and goes on a husband hunt. He finds Phil in the kitchen, having a quiet, intense conversation on his phone.

He beckons Clint in, so Clint drifts over, hoisting himself up to sit on the counter. There are two takeout cups next to Phil’s elbow, and Clint fills his time popping the lids and trying to deduce which one’s for him.

They’re both black, which is weird, since Phil usually takes his topped off with cream, and they’re both sweet, which is even weirder. Clint once had to listen to a twenty-minute rant about the evils of ruining coffee with sugar, while they were on a stakeout in Reno.

“Yes, that’s fine,” Phil says to whoever’s calling. “Thanks for letting us know.” He flips the phone closed and takes one of the coffees out of Clint’s hand. “Why are you making faces, Barton?”

“You changed your coffee order,” Clint says, knowing that sounding upset about that makes absolutely no sense.

“I live on an airplane with no cafeteria,” Phil reminds him. “I have to hide the taste of over-brewed coffee, somehow.”

“Right, yeah.” Clint hides his face in his coffee, and tells himself not to act weird just because he’s missed one teeny, tiny change in Phil’s tastes. “Who was on the phone?”

“That was May. She needs me to head back soon.” Phil puts his hands on Clint’s knees, squeezing them.

“How soon?” Clint asks. He wants to wraps his legs around Phil’s and refuse to let him leave, but he’s a goddamn adult, so he won’t be doing that.

“I bought us another night,” Phil says. “But I was hoping you’d come back with me.”

“Oh.” Clint grins, ducking his head. “Cool. I mean, yeah. I guess I could.”

“Clint.” Phil lifts his left hand and laces their fingers together. 

Clint’s heart starts to pound wildly and he suddenly can’t stand to hear Phil’s particular brand of sincere relationship talk. “Hey, wanna go for a walk?” he asks.

“A walk?” Phil asks, obviously derailed. Good, that was Clint’s plan. Inasmuch as reacting to his clawing panic is a plan. 

“Actually, no, screw that. Do you think Sam will lend me his wings?” Clint starts to leave the kitchen, intending to go find out exactly that, when Phil catches him by the wrist.

“Clint,” he says again. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Clint shakes his head fast. “Things are better than they’ve been in a long time. I just... I don’t know. Talking to Barnes kind of brought up all my Loki crap and I’m not exactly, I don’t exactly feel stable about you yet, either.”

Phil’s eyes go sad even though his expression stays neutral. “I wish I could have done things differently,” he says.

“No, hey.” Clint pokes him in the arm awkwardly. “You didn’t know either. Don’t you feel fucked up?”

“About so many things,” Phil says, quick enough that Clint makes a mental note to worry about that, “but I just feel grateful about you.”

“Shucks,” Clint says, rolling his eyes. “Now I feel like a dick.”

“You’re my dick,” Phil says, then frowns. “Wait, that didn’t come out right.”

Clint’s laugh bursts out of him so fast it takes him by surprise. “Please imagine that I thought up a really awesome innuendo here, yeah?”

“Sure.” Phil squeezes his wrist, then lets him go. “If you need a break, no one will blame you. Just try not to destroy Wilson’s wings.”

“What about my wings?” Sam asks. Clint turns around and sees him halfway down the stairs, peering into the kitchen suspiciously.

“I was just wondering if you felt like being awesome and letting me take a turn?” Clint flutters his eyelashes. “I promise not to break anything.”

Phil snorts, which makes Sam laugh. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “But you break ‘em, you... well, you break ‘em, you’ve got to get Tony Stark to build me _another_ new pair.”

“Fair,” Clint agrees, even though he hasn’t seen Stark for months. He turns to Phil, a horrible thought dawning, “Hey, does Stark know about you?”

“No,” Phil says quickly. Then he starts to look horrified. “Although if Natasha really has dumped everything online, he may know now. Oh god, and I was having such a peaceful life.”

“Yeah, Hydra versus Stark, know which one I’d choose,” Clint says. And he does, and it wouldn’t be Hydra, but don’t tell Stark that.

“Come on, then,” Sam says, bounding down the stairs. “Those two in there can bond, you can play with my wings, and Agent Phil and I can do some grown-up shit.”

“Like what?” Phil asks, following Clint who’s following Sam.

Sam looks over his shoulder and flashes a grin. “Not sure yet, but it’s definitely going to involve you telling me all about those sweet helicarriers I helped blow up and where I can find myself a new one.”

“Oh dear,” Phil sighs.

Clint grins.

***

The wings are awesome. Like, they’re amazingly awesome. Clint is going to go to Stark and beg for a pair for himself.

He spends a couple hours just flying around the neighbourhood. The wind blows through his hair and numbs his fingertips, his back and shoulders ache from the weight of the wings and learning to control them. He maybe has frostbite on his nose from when he tries to go too high.

Clint can’t remember the last time he had this much fun.

It’s possible that he would have stayed up here all day, until night came and the moon froze him and sent him falling to the ground like an Icarus in reverse, except as he’s coming in low over the house, wondering if he can buzz them without dying, he sees a car pull up in the street.

It’s followed quickly by two more. They’re all big, black shiny SUVs, the kind that SHIELD used, back when they were SHIELD. Clint is instantly suspicious.

He glides down for a closer look, just as the doors swing open and two agents who he definitely recognises climb out. They weren’t on Phil’s tiny list of definite allies, so Clint pulls up abruptly, feeling Sam’s wings whine sadly at the movement.

Clint’s hands itch. He wishes he had his bow; he’d have an arrow in every one of them before they got to the house. Instead, he does the next best thing (it’s probably _not_ the next best thing, but he’s not the one who plans shit) and turns himself into the projectile.

He hurtles through the air, connecting with the bigger of the two agents he recognises, and sends him sprawling into the grass. The other agent goes for her gun, so Clint kicks her in the knee.

People come spilling out of the other cars, already shooting, and Clint really wishes he’d thought this whole thing through. He takes off up into the air from a standing start, which he hadn’t known he could do until just then, twisting when a hail of bullets follows him.

The front door of Sam’s house flies open and Steve and Phil come rushing out.

“Hydra!” Clint yells, earning a dry, “No, really?” from Phil.

Clint flips him off and turns, crashing through the window into what turns out to be Sam’s bedroom.

“I was going to open that for you,” Sam groans, stopping in the middle of the room, mouth slightly open like he can’t believe Clint just did that. 

“Sorry, couldn’t wait,” Clint says, shaking glass out of his hair. He hates doing that. “Here.” He unbuckles the wing pack and shrugs them off. 

Sam grabs them, clutching them to his chest. Clint would mock, but he’s definitely done the same thing with his bow.

Speaking of. “Trade you,” Sam says, and picks a quiver up from the foot of the bed. He throws it at Clint, closely followed by a bow.

“How? Clint asks, already nocking an arrow into place. 

“Ask your boyfriend,” Sam says. “We picked it up while we were out. Guess it was supposed to be some kind of surprise.” He slaps the last strap into place and grins. “Now, watch how this is supposed to be done.”

Sam throws himself backwards through the now-open window (Clint knew he was Clint’s kind of people) and disappears.

Clint runs to the window, pressing himself to the wall and scanning the fight fast. Phil’s holding his own in the shade of one of the Hydra vans, taking down the driver and doing something sneaky to their tyres at the same time. Sam’s got Steve’s back against five agents.

They look like they’ve got things covered and Clint’s about to settle in to help, shoot some bad guys and keep things interesting, when there’s an almighty crash from downstairs, kind of like the back door just came off its hinges.

“Second team,” he shouts out the window, before turning and tearing through the house.

Halfway down the stairs, it hits him that he has no idea where Barnes is. Hopefully, he’s keeping out of the damn way, but that doesn’t sound like the kind of thing a brainwashed Hydra assassin _or_ a Howling Commando is likely to do.

Then someone shoots at Clint from the kitchen, the bullet cutting a hot, sharp line in his side, and he decides to worry about Barnes later.

“What the fuck?” Clint shouts, hunkering down and pressing a hand to his side just long enough to decide that yup, he’s bleeding. “Don’t you guys have better things to do than harass innocent citizens.”

There’s a laugh from the kitchen. “Innocent, Barton?” 

“Rollins?” Clint demands, leaning his bleeding side against the wall so he can hold his bow up without like, screaming in too much agony. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Hail Hydra, asshole,” Rollins says flatly, and shoots at Clint again.

At some point, Clint is going to stop feeling sick and betrayed every time someone else outs themselves as a fucking traitor, but not today. He’s worked with the SWAT teams over and over; if Rumlow _and_ Rollins are Hydra, Clint’s going to bet they all are.

“Come out and face me, then,” Clint says. “Now that you guys are all out in the light or what the fuck ever.”

“There are five of us and one of you; you’re not getting out of here,” Rollins says. “Neither is your precious Coulson. The Imperial Hydra wants him specially.”

Clint fingers his arrow. “The Imperial _what_? What the hell even is that?”

There’s no answer. Clint shifts, suspecting a trap. He flicks his eyes left and right, while keeping his main attention on the kitchen door. From beyond the wall, there’s a muffled thump, then another, then someone curses, bitten off halfway through.

Clint rises to his feet, wincing at the thick smear of blood he leaves behind on Sam’s wall. He creeps down the rest of the stairs, bow loose but ready at his side. He crosses the hall in two steps and presses himself to the wall.

He can’t hear anything from the kitchen, not even the muffled sounds of people trying not to breathe loud. Blood rolls sluggishly down Clint’s side, and Clint doesn’t have the time or patience to fuck around out here.

“Hands up,” he says, swinging into the room with his bow drawn.

He stops abruptly, stomach rolling.

The SWAT team are dead. Like, not nicely dead, they’re _really_ dead. Bits of Rollins are splattered on the floor and up one wall and there’s what looks like half a human eyeball sitting on Sam’s stove. In total, there are five dead Hydra agents scattered around the room, all of them killed fast and messy.

Right in the middle, stands Bucky Barnes, except that Clint would bet good money that he’s not actually Bucky Barnes, right now.

“Thanks?” Clint says, just in case all the killing was for him, not just because Barnes saw Hydra and got pissed.

Barnes turns toward him, eyebrows drawn in and Clint immediately raises his hands, bow and all. 

“Not Hydra,” he says. “I swear, one hundred percent not Hydra.”

Barnes nods slowly. “I know,” he says slowly, like he’s feeling the words out. “You helped me.”

“I did.” Clint puts his bow down, shrugs off his quiver. “You remember where you are?”

Barnes turns, looking around. His gaze lands on a pool of blood not a foot from where he’s standing, and he slowly, carefully follows it to the man it’s dripping out of. He doesn’t stop his slow turn, taking in every part of every one of the SWAT team, a tiny sound escaping the back of his throat at the end.

“I did that?” he asks.

“It was seriously appreciated,” Clint assures him. “They were bad people and - ”

“Clint?” he hears. “Bucky?”

“Crap.” Clint turns himself around, forcibly blocking the door so Steve can’t come in. “You don’t want to be in here, right now,” he says.

“Don’t be stupid,” Steve says and gently pushes him aside. He gets two steps into the room then stops. His hand flies up to his mouth before he very noticeably forces it back down. 

“Bucky?” he says. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Stay the hell away from me,” Barnes snaps. There’s a kitchen knife in his hand, which Clint would swear wasn’t there before. It’s covered in blood down to the hilt; someone’s going to owe Sam so much money.

“I’m not Hydra,” Steve says, holding up his hands.

Barnes’s eyes track to Clint’s, and his expression turns desperate and pleading. “He knows that, Steve,” Clint says, putting his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Just give us a minute.”

“No, Steve says. “I’m sick of giving you a goddamn minute. I mean, I’m sorry, I appreciate all you’re doing, but I don’t understand why he’ll talk to you but not to me.”

“Because I don’t matter,” Clint says. “You matter. So let him tell me all the crappy shit, so he can come to you feeling just a little more human.” He hears the front door open. “Also, seriously, stop Sam before he sees what’s happened to his kitchen.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says, and turns, stopping Sam a step or two away from the kitchen door. Clint waits a beat, just to make sure that Phil is there and whole, then goes back to Barnes.

He’s sunk down onto the kitchen floor, one leg of his borrowed pants soaked in blood. He’s rocking, very slowly, his arms wrapped around his stomach.

“Aww, Bucky Barnes,” Clint says, steeling himself, then sitting down next to him. He’s stopped bleeding, he thinks, but all movement hurts. “I don’t suppose you’d be open to a hug? I give great hugs.”

Barnes shakes his head, shoulders inching up towards his ears. “He wants... he wants to be my friend,” he says. 

It’s not a question, but, “Yeah, he does,” Clint says, anyway. It’s good to reinforce that kind of thing. He thinks back to everything he knows about Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Since he married Phil, that’s kind of a lot. “He wants to look after you. Like, you always used to look after him, right?”

“He was tiny,” Bucky says, then looks at Clint like he’s waiting for a nod to tell him he’s gotten that right. “He needed looking after. I’m a monster; I need putting down.”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ say that,” Clint says, too loud and too angrily, but jeez. “You asked me how to fix yourself, remember? Well, not pushing away the people who love you is a really big step.” Clint didn’t push Phil away, because he was already gone, but he went undercover pretty quick, and looking back, that was probably a mistake.

“You’ve got Director Coulson?” Barnes asks. “He loves you?” 

Clint decides not to be worried that Barnes not only knows who Phil is, but he knows Phil’s new title. That’s not even intelligence he would have gotten from Hydra. “I do. He does,” Clint says.

Barnes sits up and brings his legs with him, wrapping his arms around his knees and either not noticing or not caring that he’s sitting in blood splatter. “Does it feel okay?” 

“What?” Clint hopes he doesn’t mean sex. He really hopes that.

“Being with him.” Oh, okay, that’s slightly better.

“Yes,” Clint says, maybe a little too fervently. “Being with him is great.”

Barnes fiddles with the cuffs on his borrowed sweatshirt. “Even though, even though you almost killed him? You don’t feel that you might lose control again?”

“Well, not until about one second ago,” Clint says, ignoring the sudden tightness in his lungs. He taps his hands against his knees, trying to think of something to say. “There’s a risk, yeah, I guess. But neither me nor you ever wanted to hurt anyone, right? It all came from other people. So the chances of us suddenly flipping out now that those people are gone is pretty low.”

“I just killed five people,” Barnes says, like Clint might have missed that, like they’re not literally very much in his awareness, right now.

“And you stopped as soon as the bad people were dead.” Clint shrugs. “I don’t know, I don’t think you’re dangerous, sorry.”

“But there’s still a chance I am,” Barnes presses.

Clint glances up, looking around and hoping for inspiration. What he finds is Phil, watching him from the doorway. 

“There’s a chance,” he agrees. He feels himself try to get embarrassed, now that he knows they have an audience, but he shoves that down. “But I guess it’s kind of up to them? Like, we do our bit by not flipping out and killing everyone, and they do their part by trusting us and deciding that they want to stick around.”

He offers a smile up to Phil, who nods back slowly.

“Okay,” Barnes says, drawing Clint’s attention back.

“Okay?” Clint asks. He’s not going to jump to any conclusions, here, it doesn’t sound safe.

“Maybe I can talk to him,” Barnes says. “To... Steve.”

Phil slides away from the doorway, and a second later, is replaced by Steve. Clint grins. “I think he’d probably like that,” he says. He stands up, then stops, crouches back down in Barnes’s eyeline. “Even if this goes to shit, you still got me, okay?”

Barnes’s eyes look wide and terrified, but the rest of his face is set in determined lines. “Okay,” he says again.

Steve is halfway into the room, before Clint can call him over. He whispers, “Thank you,” as they pass, his eyes locked on Barnes.

Clint holds his hand out and slaps Steve’s palm, passing the baton on. He glances back over his shoulder in time to watch Barnes shift over a little so Steve can sit next to him. He’s watching Steve out the corner of his eye, and it’s the kind of awkwardly adorable that you only normally see when Natasha tries to interact with cats.

Clint turns away, grinning to himself, and walks straight into Sam. “You ever want a job at the VA, you should stop by,” Sam says.

“Is that what you do?” Clint asks. He jerks his thumb at Barnes. “Can you help him?”

“Maybe,” Sam says, dragging it out. “I mean hell yeah, of course, I can do anything. I want to see how much of a miracle you and Cap can work, first. Goddamn, Avengers.”

Clint shrugs at him. “I’m just paying it forward, man.”

“Whatever,” Sam says, with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t want to embarrass you by making you accept a compliment. Now, Cap says I’m not allowed to look in my own kitchen, even though I have been to fucking war. How bad is it?”

“Really, really bad,” Clint says. “Sorry, man.”

“Dammit,” Sam says, and turns away. “There are dead guys on my lawn. I need to go convince my neighbours not to run me off the street.”

“Don’t mention SHIELD,” Phil advises from behind Clint. “It doesn’t go over well, lately.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Sam mutters, and disappears out onto the street.

When Clint turns around, Phil is looking at Clint with this weird, soft expression. Clint thought he already knew all of Phil’s expressions. “What?” he asks, leaning into Phil. “I got something on my face?”

“You did that really well,” Phil says softly. “I’m proud of you.”

“Oh.” Clint ducks his head, feeling his cheeks flush hot. “Yeah, it’s no big deal? I mostly bullshitted. If he’s going to get over everything Hydra did to him, that’s gonna be because he chose to, not because of anything I said.”

Phil slides his arm around Clint’s waist and pulls him in closer. Clint goes easily, resting his head on Phil’s shoulder. “I’m still proud.”

Clint laughs. “Well, I guess that’s your prerogative, sir.”

Phil’s arm tightens, and Clint doesn’t think it’s because of the good sort of possessiveness like a minute ago. “You don’t need to call me sir,” he says quietly. “If you don’t want to be part of SHIELD anymore, there are no reporting lines.”

“Phil,” Clint says, lowering his voice so only Phil can hear. “I am always gonna call you sir.”

Phil coughs. “Well, okay, that’s fine, too,” he says. He pulls back a little, looking Clint in the eye. “I would love to have you back as part of SHIELD.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Clint shrugs. “I guess I want to see what you turn it into, first? But, I mean, you’ll always have me. I still want to help.”

Phil smiles like maybe he was actually worried about that. The idiot. “That’s good to know,” he says. He slides his hand down Clint’s arm and squeezes Clint’s hand. “That’s really all I need.”

Clint pulls Phil in close and leans his head on Phil's shoulder. “Yeah?” he asks. “Me too.” 

Back in the kitchen, something falls to the floor, and they both tense. “We’re okay,” Steve calls. He sounds like he’s laughing. “We really are.”

“I don’t think I want to know,” Phil says in Clint’s ear.

“Yeah, let’s just stay here,” Clint decides. So they do.

***

_Six Months Later_

Clint is lying face down on a mountainside, watching through his scope as May and Trip tag team a group of Hydra assholes, when his cellphone vibrates in his pocket.

The ground team has things totally under control for now, so he pulls it out and accepts the call, putting it on speaker on the ground beside him.

“Hey, Bucky Barnes,” he says.

“I kissed Steve,” Barnes says, without preamble.

Clint had been taking the opportunity to line up a shot and it almost (almost) goes wide. May looks up long enough to glare in his direction even though the bullet only went slightly near her swinging ponytail.

“How did that go for you?” Clint asks. He checks the date on his mental calendar; dammit, Phil won that bet.

“Pretty good,” Barnes says, and there’s laughter in the background.

“Yeah?” Clint grins. “You gonna do it again?”

“Maybe.” Barnes laughs, too. He has a good laugh; it took four months before Clint ever heard it, but he likes it. “Gotta wait a while though. Treat ‘em mean, to keep ‘em keen.”

“Who the hell taught you that?” Clint asks. He picks off one more Hydra agent, partly because he can and partly because it’ll annoy Trip, who was in the middle of grappling with him. 

“Stark,” Steve’s voice yells from the other end of the line.

“No one,” Barnes says over him. “I been dating since long before you were born, Clint Barton, I know shit.”

“I bet you do,” Clint agrees. He wishes he was back in DC. He hasn’t seen Bucky or Steve, or Sam, for months now. These telephone calls are fun, but he really wants to _see_ what a post-Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes is like. 

“Is this a bad time?” Steve asks, voice coming closer to the speaker. “That sounds like gunfire.”

Clint shrugs, even though they can’t see him. “Eh, you know, just a little Hydra hunting. You guys would love it.”

“We’re on vacation,” Steve says firmly.

Bucky groans. “We’ve been on vacation for months. I wanna go show Clint what a real sniper can do.”

“Vacation,” Steve repeats. “Clint, we’ll let you go now. Call us tonight, so we know you’re all okay?”

“Sure thing, Cap,” Clint promises. He shoves his phone back into his pocket, then goes back to watching his new team do their things. They’re very good at their things, even if half of them are so fucking young they make him feel like a grandpa.

SHIELD may be gone and Clint’s world may have imploded, but he still has good things to fight for and good people to fight with. He still has Phil.

He’s okay, and if he has anything to say about it, they’re all going to be okay, in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥


End file.
